


Star Trek: Enterprise and the Totally Self-Indulgent Fanfic

by Archangel_Beth



Series: Borg of Star Trek Online [2]
Category: Star Trek Online, Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: Crack Crossover, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 11:23:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 41,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4017901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archangel_Beth/pseuds/Archangel_Beth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>After eight or nine episodes of <b>Enterprise</b>, my Star Trek Online character insisted she wanted to play. The plot bunny had me by the throat. This is the result.</i>
</p><hr/><p>Time-travel is a time-honored tradition in Starfleet. Why, every good little cadet dreams of the day when they'll get to meet someone important, themselves, or just check out old space stations when they were fresh and new. Not to mention even a dinky little ship will overpower the ones of the era!</p><p>But what's a green-blooded, pointy-eared captain to do when stopping the destruction of the first starship <i>Enterprise</i> leaves that important historical craft crippled? And with far too much likelihood of investigating things they shouldn't, that will upset the timeline and possibly unmake you?</p><p>In times like these, it's always worth thinking: WWKD? Where K is for the famous, infamous, and notorious Kirk, of course...</p><hr/><p>
  <i>(An acceptable cover, following a long tradition of "barely applies to the story inside," is at <a href="http://archangelbeth.deviantart.com/art/ST-Self-Indugent-Fanfic-cover-566543130"> http://archangelbeth.deviantart.com/art/ST-Self-Indugent-Fanfic-cover-566543130</a> )</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> There will often be commentary in the end-notes. Ignore them as needed.
> 
> Note that any out-of-continuity errors -- based on this being written after watching a mere handful of episodes -- should be attributed to alternate timelines, because Elements know we have plenty of _those_ running around.

**Prologue**

_Behind the two vessels, battle no longer quite raged, with implosions marking the losing side's former ships. It was a terrible waste of genetic matter at best._

_Which was one reason why the captain of the larger, more advanced ship had hailed the one she chased. "Do surrender," the captain urged, with understated sincerity. "You're outgunned, the **Kinaen** is faster than you are, and the Glitch is tracking down your escort back there."_

_"Traitor," the other captain spat back at her. "Enjoy your final moments!" He cut the comm._

_Before the **Kinaen** 's captain could finish her order to disable the fleeing ship, space... **ripped**. The fugitive plunged through the hole._

_Without hesitation, the **Kinaen** followed._

* * *

**Interlude**

_It's been a long road / Getting from there to here_

*a finger mashes the "skip forward" button*

(Vocals! On a _Star Trek_ series! That's just... _wrong_. Theremins and orchestras all the way!)

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: "the Glitch" is a nickname for Eleven of Ten, whose story is not explained here.
> 
> 2: The _Kinaen_ is named something different in STO, and is a Daeinos Heavy Destroyer. (See sto.gamepedia.com for more details.) It is usually in Regenerative Mode.
> 
> 3: It's a perfectly nice set of opening visuals. It's a perfectly adequate, ear-worming song. But _Star Trek_ is for orchestras and theremins! Not vocals! Uncanny valley!


	2. Archer

**Archer**

Captain Archer was at the back of the _Enterprise_ bridge, getting the reports of New And Possibly Interesting planets, when Travis, at the helm, yelped and swore. Archer wheeled around, grabbing the display-table in case something was about to hit the ship, and stared at the main screen.

Where the calm starfield of warp five had been, there was now a gash in space. An aurora surrounded the blackness, highlighting the unnatural gap -- and they were closing fast with it. Archer's _Stop the ship!_ overlapped with Travis' own, _Stopping the ship!_

The timing was instinctive and appropriate, as a starship streaked out of the rip, blazing with its own aura. The rough oval of the distortion was shrinking, and the second ship through was sideways, with the nacelle-tipped wings barely squeaking past. Space healed itself with a visual flare that translated, three seconds later, into a shudder through the hull.

Tucker's voice came though the ship-comm a moment later. "Cap'n! Something shook up the engines! What's going on up there?"

The first ship through the rift hadn't had a chance to catch its bearings. The second, larger one had opened fire with a spray of red-glowing missiles, followed by--

"Energy weapons, Captain," T'Pol reported from her station, barely glancing away from the screen-visor.

Archer answered his engineer. "Couple of people having an argument, looks like. How're the engines, Trip?"

"Baby them," Tucker said, and cut the comm to, presumably, go back to fixing things.

"Sir," Malcolm said, "if we can back off so we don't get involved in that 'argument'..."

"Good idea." Archer swung himself into his chair. "Travis, baby us back a little. T'Pol, how far away are we from that little disagreement?"

"Twelve point seven two kilometers, Captain. The smaller ship appears to be trying to close the distance. The larger one seems to be attempting to interpose itself between us. Both ship types are unfamiliar, though moderately similar to each other. There is a superficial resemblance to Klingon design."

If the Vulcan was that informative, there was undoubtedly some interesting maneuvering going on. Archer made himself pay more attention to the movements instead of being hypnotized by the lightshow of the weapons and the colors of their energy shielding. "Malcolm, call Hoshi up here," Archer said. "Might need to talk to them." Or talk to the winner, anyway. He itched to know whose side he should be rooting for. Normally he'd be hoping the underdog got away, but was the bigger ship trying to keep its prey from seeking help -- or trying to keep _Enterprise_ from getting hit by friendly fire?

They were certainly impressive, swooping around like that. Both ships had a long central hull, with a pair of nacelle-tipped "wing"-sections placed slightly aft of middle, and looked something like abstract birds.

Hoshi was out of breath when she arrived, sliding into her seat at near-warp herself. "Have they broadcast yet?" she asked.

"Not yet," Archer said. "T'Pol, picked up anything?"

"Negative, Captain."

Malcolm added, "The smaller ship is outclassed, sir. I believe the larger one is trying to disable it."

T'Pol said, "The energy shields on the smaller ship are down. The larger one has dropped its forward shields. I'm detecting..." She paused a moment. "Transporter signatures. The larger ship is using transporter technology to take things -- or people -- from the smaller."

"Slavers?" Travis said, though he hadn't stopped edging them away from the battle.

Archer remembered a derelict ship, its dead crew being harvested for their hormones, and frowned. "Let's hail--" he began.

"The bigger ship is hailing us," Hoshi said. Then she paused. "She's speaking _English_."

"Put her on the screen," Archer said, and stood up.

"It's an audio-only transmission, sir," Hoshi said, but signaled him that their video was going out.

"This is Captain Archer of the _Enterprise_ ," he said, watching the two ships continue their combat. The bigger ship had its shields back up.

The voice that replied was female, with a faint, but very unfamiliar accent. "Greetings, Captain Archer," she said. "This is Captain... T'En, of the _Oath_. Please stay away from this. They're here to blow you up, and we're here to protect you."

"Ah... Thanks," he said. "Ah, our sensors say you're taking something off their ship?"

"Correct. We are attempting to acquire their engineers." The transmission sputtered briefly, as perhaps Captain T'En muted her end to give some order, and recovered. "Before you ask, this is to discover how they created the gateway that brought us here -- and to save some lives in case we must destroy their ship, or if its captain orders a self-destruct."

Travis gave a nearly inaudible grunt. With a glance, Archer saw Malcolm watching the screen -- showing the lovely, deadly combat -- with cool thoughtfulness. Archer turned back to the camera. "We're glad to hear it's not for... some other purpose, Captain. Ah... it's a bit surprising to hear a familiar language out here."

"Apologies for not hailing you earlier, Captain," came the reply. "Between thwarting the... forgive me, but the name does not translate well. Between thwarting the enemy ship and obtaining information about the surrounding area, we were a little busy. Fortunately, for a few moments, I am one of the least-necessary officers. This will not last. Is there anything else that will not wait till we have subdued them?"

Archer thought fast. "You say they're here to blow us up -- can you say why, Captain T'En?"

There was a pause, though not with the sound of a muted connection. Then she said, "We're from your future, Captain Archer of the _Enterprise_. They want to change it. I don't. Excuse me, I'm needed on my bridge."

There was a moment of silence, and Hoshi confirmed, "She's stopped transmitting."

"Well." Archer dropped back into his seat. After a moment, he craned his neck around to look at his science officer. "Captain T'En -- sound familiar?"

"The structure is superficially Vulcan, Captain," T'Pol said, "but 'T'En' is not a traditional Vulcan name."

Hoshi added, "She hesitated a moment before she gave it, sir."

Archer nodded. "She did, didn't she." He frowned at the screen, almost not watching it-- until he did, and saw the smaller vessel twist and skim under the _Oath_ 's belly, close enough that the ships were probably scraping together. It was headed directly at the _Enterprise_. And then T'Pol and Malcolm were both reporting its weapons were charged, and Archer snapped, "Travis, _go!_ " before he flipped a switch and called, "Trip, we can't baby them!"

And then Travis had them headed away at an angle, full warp (thank God), while side and rear cameras showed the enemy closing faster than he liked -- especially with T'Pol's calm reports of how fast that _was_ \-- and Archer was calling down to Engineering that they could really use a little more speed if Trip had some under his bed somewhere.

The _Oath_ rose above the enemy like an eagle, and of a sudden, it was haloed all around as space folded, not quite torn, but edged in white ripples like a tube with the _Oath_ in its center.

T'Pol reported, deadpan, "The _Oath_ is approaching at speeds... exceeding warp ten."

The _Oath_ overtook the "Untranslatable." The ripples vanished. Malcolm said, "They're firing aft missiles, sir -- and mines. The _Oath_ is dropping mines."

Explosions flared on the forward energy shields of the "Untranslatable." Multiple colors flared, and T'Pol reported, "The _Oath_ has locked a tractor beam onto the other ship. They are pulling it off-course and slowing it."

Archer was nearly relieved -- which, of course, was when the _Enterprise_ lurched and shuddered, and Travis reported, "We've lost warp drive, Captain!"

Archer flipped the switch to Engineering's intercom again. "We didn't baby it enough?"

There was a short silence, which Archer mentally filled with profanity, and finally Tucker said tightly, "No, Captain, we did _not_ baby it enough."

Malcolm said, "Weapons armed, Captain." He added, mostly under his breath, "For all the good they'd do against those shields."

Archer suspected Malcolm was getting very tired of being outgunned by most of the ships they'd met.

"The ships are sending transmissions to each other," Hoshi said. "They're encrypted."

"Can you break it?"

"Not quickly, sir."

T'Pol said, "The smaller ship has dropped its shields entirely, and its weapons are no longer charged. More transporter energy signatures are coming from the _Oath_."

Archer grunted and slouched in the seat. "They surrendered?"

"I do not believe so, Captain. However, with their shields compromised, and considering the transporter technology the _Oath_ possesses, the smaller ship would have been at risk of a boarding party taking control of their engineering room."

With a sigh, Archer said, "I suppose we'd better make some popcorn and watch the show, then." He didn't say that there wasn't much else they could do with the warp drive down. He didn't need to.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The _Oath_ is equipped with a Slipstream Drive, of course -- it's a Veteran's Award ship, after all. If one hypothesizes that one can turn it on and off again, it makes a dandy way to catch up _really fast_ when you want to lock your tractor beam onto someone...


	3. Archer (Again)

**Archer**

It took four hours for the _Oath_ to finish subduing the "Untranslatable." About an hour into that, they'd gotten another voice-only transmission from the "Senior Ship Morale Officer" -- a very pleasant voice, female, with yet another entirely unidentifiable accent -- asking the _Enterprise_ 's patience while the captain was busy, suggesting the _Enterprise_ could go about its business if it wished, and expressing sympathy when informed that their engines were not happy.

But, finally, the crewman on watch reported that they'd gotten another transmission from the _Oath_ , asking when the _Enterprise_ might wish to speak with Captain T'En, and stating that the timing of which would be entirely at Captain Archer's convenience.

Four hours had been quite long enough to hash out the whole "time travel" claim, and find it -- in T'Pol's words -- "plausible." The very clear English, far from Earth, was a pretty strong case, but the choice of a Vulcan-sounding name, plus the unfamiliar ship type, suggested someone wanted to be thought of as allied and truthful. (If not, as Archer had reason to know, necessarily _honest_.)

So he'd requested a half-hour to get his people together and caffeinated, and now everyone was on the bridge, including both a very cranky Trip and a very curious Dr. Phlox -- the latter on the grounds that ship combat produced injuries, and if the _Enterprise_ wound up offering assistance, it would make briefing Phlox faster.

"Audio transmission," Hoshi reported.

Archer said, " _Enterprise_ here. Go ahead."

"Captain Archer," came the voice of the enigmatic T'En. "I'll enable video in a moment, but I wanted to prepare you first. My appearance may be startling."

"We've seen some pretty strange things," Archer said, trying to sound reassuring and not a little cranky himself. "We can handle it."

"The _Enterprise_ is known for handling 'pretty strange things,'" T'En agreed. "Enabling video."

A room appeared on the main screen, with neutral walls of taupe or ocher or one of those vague-but-fancy colors that only a few places in _Enterprise_ bothered with. There were two women in that room: one standing slightly behind the other, who was seated. The seated one, however, occupied Archer's attention.

His first impression was that Captain T'En was what you'd see if such things as the ghosts of Vulcan pirates existed. She was pale. Excessively pale, like white jade tinged with green. Her hair was silver, sleeked down even more than T'Pol kept hers, with the cut emulating a widow's peak. It revealed her pointed ears. Her single eye was a spectral gray. The other eye... Was a lens, set into a plate of dark bluish metal that took up a bit less than a quarter of her face on that side.

She looked even more pale because she was wearing a blue-black outfit, with silvery shoulder-pad decorations that nearly matched her eye.

The woman standing at parade rest behind her had identical pointed ears, but was only a little lighter than T'Pol's complexion, and her hair was fully black. She wore a two-toned jumpsuit of black and dark red, with a pistol at her hip.

Archer didn't look at T'Pol; if she wasn't annoyed, she'd be paying attention calmly. If she was annoyed, she'd be paying attention fixedly. It was hard to tell the difference. Besides, he'd bet Trip was looking and would tell him which expression it'd been, later.

"Well," Archer said. "I hadn't thought that looked like a Vulcan ship."

T'En tilted her head minutely, a bit like a clockwork gear had gone _tic_ in her neck. "It's not. I can't discuss the provenance of it without risking temporal paradoxes, unfortunately."

Grouchily, Trip said, "Well, what _can_ you tell us?"

She seemed unperturbed, which was... not entirely Vulcan, at that. Her reply was mild, not More Logical Than Thou. "Much less than would make you happy. However, as my personal history is very much entwined with Starfleet, I do not wish to accidentally unmake myself. I hope you can forgive me for being less informative than we would like. Still, if you can bear hearing far too many 'I can't answer that' replies, I am at your disposal."

There was movement out of the corner of Archer's eye. He glanced 'round in time to see T'Pol stride into view of the _Enterprise_ bridge cameras. She said something in Vulcan.

T'En gave another little twitch, her chin going a degree the other way, and replied -- in Vulcan, which didn't come through the translator. Archer leaned back a little and glanced at Hoshi past T'Pol's spine; his linguistics expert mouthed _recording_ and pointed at her console. With a tiny nod of his own, Archer straightened up.

TPol said something else, T'En responded, T'Pol stood there a moment -- with what Archer suspected was impotent frustration about something -- and then walked back to her post. The ghostly captain added, in English, "I had not realized the _Enterprise_ had Vulcan crew from the very start."

"Even Vulcans can sleep through history class, eh?" Tucker asked -- beating Archer to it.

Archer would've sworn he saw T'En's lips tighten in a repressed smile, and a muscle twitched under her eye; it made her look amused instead of angry, even as that little tic happened again. She replied, "I am a special case. I was, metaphorically, raised by... wolves, I believe the Terran species is called?"

That did call for raised eyebrows all around. "Vulcans get raised by wolves?" Archer asked.

"Metaphorically. It's a long story." That little tic again. "And one that would be full of vague elisions. If you wish the tale, however, it is yours."

"Maybe later," Archer said, because _it's a long story_ would turn into a bedtime story and Starfleet ought to make a better impression than falling asleep on camera. "Do you need any medical assistance over there?"

The ghostly eyebrow went up fractionally. "A generous offer. Let me consult my chief medical officer. We may have some injured crew who could be beamed over."

The _casual_ way she said that would've had antenna perking up all over the bridge, if they'd been Andorians. "Your transporter technology is... encouraging, Captain," Archer said.

T'En's lips parted for a moment before she said, "I see I should have done more than skim the available history files. Would you be able to accept transporter beams, or shall I break out the shuttles?"

Archer raised his hands and shook his head. "Transporter will be fine. Doctor Phlox here--" he indicated the Denobulan, who waved at the camera "--can meet your people in the transporter area."

Slowly, T'En nodded. "Thank you, Captain Archer." She turned in her chair, more fluidly than her little tics had suggested, and said to the Vulcan woman behind her, "Lieutenant V'Lor, can you make arrangements? You know the constraints we're under."

The lieutenant murmured, "Yes, Admiral," saluted, and exited from the camera's view, leaving T'En returning to a straight-backed pose as she regarded her own view of the _Enterprise_ bridge.

Archer said, "Ah... Admiral?"

"Technically. They were all field promotions." T'En's deadpan delivery was somehow even better than T'Pol's, though Archer couldn't quite figure out why. T'En continued, "V'Lor may need to beam over briefly to allow our transporter operators to get a fix on the location. I assume you'll want to have your security meet her."

"On it, sir," Malcolm said, and got up to make his own exit. He cracked a yawn just before he left the bridge, with Dr. Phlox right behind him.

T'En's little twitch seemed to follow Malcolm. Her words confirmed it. "This is your night-cycle, isn't it?"

T'Pol muttered something in Vulcan that was meant to be heard. Archer wasn't sure he wanted to understand it, and said, "I'm afraid so."

"Then I should let you all rest and synchronize my own sleep-cycle. So far as we know, the matter here is stable. We are, unfortunately, a little short of engineers ourselves, as we have a skeleton crew on the captured ship -- and we'd need to find someone who could help without giving away anything that might generate temporal paradoxes. If you require any parts, though, please send the specifications over -- we should be able to rep--" She paused. "To provide parts."

"That's very kind of you," Archer said, before Tucker could rouse himself to be grouchy about the damage done to the engines. "I'm sure Tucker here can get on that right away."

"Or after a nap," T'En said, with another clockwork twitch. "I am medically-trained. Humans require six to ten hours of sleep for optimal performance. Even if Starfleet has selected for the lower end of that range..."

"I'm _fine_ ," Tucker said.

"Of course," T'En agreed smoothly. "Nevertheless, do feel free to take what time you need. We have acquired more prisoners than we have ever managed before, and must triage them to determine who must be kept where. The captured ship has been placed in a state where it would need a few hours to awaken it to full operation. The only risk is that you miss some appointment -- and there is little we can do about that."

Archer could sense Tucker was going to object just to be objectionable, and said, "That's a good idea, Captain. And tomorrow, perhaps you could join us for lunch? That'd be in, oh, about twelve hours from now. Earth hours."

T'En's eye unfocused a little, then she nodded once ( _clockwork, clockwork_ ticked in his mind). "I can resynchronize myself to that schedule. Thank you, Captain. I would be honored."

"See you then. Archer out."

The viewscreen went back to watching the two ships, which were now motionless. Archer leaned back in his seat and sighed. "Trip, go get a nap. The Admiral over there said so, and she probably outranks all of us."

"If she's telling the truth," Tucker muttered, but he got up and left anyway. Hopefully heading for his quarters.

Archer asked, "T'Pol?"

"V'Lor is a traditional Vulcan name," she said, standing. "I am unsure of the veracity of T'En's claim, regarding being 'raised by wolves.'"

"Metaphorical wolves," Archer said.

She didn't dignify that with a response. "I will be in my quarters. I presume you wish me to attend lunch."

"I'd like your viewpoint," he said.

"I will be present." She left.

And then there were two, he thought. "Hoshi," he said, and jerked his head toward his tiny ready room off the bridge.

There was only one really comfortable seat, and if Archer took it, then Hoshi wouldn't be able to sit there. Plus he'd probably fall asleep. He gathered a sleepy, tail-wagging Porthos out of it and took his desk chair instead. "So what'd they say when the humans couldn't understand them?

Hoshi slotted a record-chip into her tablet and scrolled through the images -- both what the viewscreen had shown, and what the camera'd been recording. Archer winced to see himself, looking tired and not nearly as crisp as T'En and her crew member.

"Here's when T'Pol first spoke," Hoshi said, pausing the images. "She gave a traditional Vulcan greeting. T'En gave the traditional reply. T'Pol thanked her for her assistance in protecting the ship. T'En said... and I guess this is maybe some _archaic_ Vulcan saying? I've never heard it before. She said it was her honor to serve, and she would do it a thousand times over for the sake of the name."

"That doesn't sound like 'raised by wolves,'" he commented, rubbing Porthos' ears.

"Maybe it's a saying from the future?"

"Vulcans making _new_ traditions?" He snorted.

"Then maybe they were very poetic wolves." Hoshi shrugged. "She's _fluent_ in Vulcan. But she's fluent in English, too. I need to go over these more. I think she has the same accent in both languages."

"And it's not a Vulcan accent?" he guessed.

She shook her head. "I don't know. Linguistic drift, cross-contamination from other languages... It might be a future-Vulcan accent. It might be an accent from a Vulcan linguistic family that we haven't yet encountered."

The idea of hillbilly Vulcans drifted through Archer's mind, followed by Australian ones. He rubbed his eyes. "Let's get some sleep. The 'medically-trained' admiral says we need it."

"She's right," Hoshi said, and pointedly waited for him to get up with Porthos and follow her to the lift.

He was glad to collapse into his bed. He was less glad when his mind insisted on chewing over the prior conversations -- but something was gnawing at him. He was nearly asleep all the way when he realized what it was.

T'Pol didn't much like humans. She thought they smelled bad and got illogic all over everything. Half the time, whenever she spoke, she was talking down her nose at everyone with round ears. And she certainly never smiled. Never even relaxed.

T'En, despite her clockwork twitch, looked at humans with curiosity. She almost smiled. Humans might _amuse_ her, but she wasn't looking down her moon-pale nose at them.

That shifted into the Moon being made of green cheese, and Archer slept.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler: The Senior Ship Morale Officer is a Risian Entertainer duty officer.


	4. Malcolm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As Malcolm Reed is a British character, I have done my best to render his viewpoint chapters with British spelling and punctuation. Because it's my self-indulgent fanfic and I'll stunt-write if I want to.

**Malcolm**

Sidearm set for heavy stun, Malcolm waited in front of the transporter with Dr Phlox. The signal had been given, and any moment now...

Sparks of glittering green turned into a standing humanoid. A black-haired Vulcan, in the two-toned jumpsuit -- the one from the viewscreen, yes. While she glanced around, alert, Malcolm stepped forward. 'Lieutenant V'Lor?'

'Yes.' She looked at him levelly. 'I did not receive your name.'

Vulcans. She wasn't yet as bad as some, but she was definitely in the running. He said, 'Lieutenant Malcolm Reed.'

'Lieutenant Reed. Doctor Phlox.' She nodded to them both. 'We have stretchers for our wounded, or can beam them directly to your sickbay if that would be acceptable. None of them have life-threatening injuries.'

There were going to be people traipsing through the ship one way or the other. Malcolm thought about the matter for a moment, while Dr Phlox chattered about the pros and cons of each approach, then took a moment when the Denobulan was pausing for breath to say, 'If you'd follow me, Lieutenant, I think a... direct placement might be best.'

She nodded to Malcolm, and he led the way -- a bit roundabout, to keep her from spotting things he didn't want her seeing.

'And there's beds for seven,' Dr Phlox continued as if Malcolm hadn't interrupted in the first place. 'If there's worse, I can certainly set something up!'

'We'll be keeping the worst injured ourselves,' V'Lor said. 'The admiral doesn't want anyone here who might... babble.'

'Oh, and I bet you've got even better medical technology than we do!' Phlox was relentlessly cheerful. 'I wish I could see it!'

'It is regrettable that the risk of temporal paradox is too great for that,' V'Lor said, as if by rote.

Regret wasn't something Vulcans were big on.

Still, she was glancing round with what Malcom thought might be more curiosity than the average Vulcan displayed. When she stepped into the sickbay -- with its various alien plants and animals next to the displays and medical beds -- she looked about openly. 'Indeed,' she said, 'it is regretful you cannot visit. Your approach to medicine is akin to some of the scientists aboard the... _Oath_.'

Malcolm noted the pause, and asked, 'Are there alternate translations for the ship's name?'

That collected him a look that he'd expected: one security officer to another, knowing full well that he was asking _Is that really your ship's name?_ V'Lor said, 'We do not usually translate the name into Terran. The actual word is from a language you do not yet know.'

'Your Admiral takes this "temporal protection" very seriously,' Malcolm said while Phlox bustled around, readying the medical beds.

'She is accurate regarding the potential threat to her own current existence.' V'Lor turned away and gazed around the room. 'Three beds here, four in the room across the hall. Are we permitted to fill them all?'

Malcolm answered that one, since Phlox would likely throw all considerations out the airlock just to satisfy his curiosity about these time-travelers. 'You're not giving us the most serious cases, so if we can move people into cabins if _we_ need the beds...'

'Yes. Or return them to us.'

'Then, Doctor?' He gave Phlox an opportunity to voice any objections.

As expected, Phlox gave a hearty, 'Of course!'

V'Lor nodded, tapped her badge, and said to the air, 'Three patients may be beamed down to my coordinates. No more than two accompanying medics at a time. Have four more patients standing by for another room.'

A voice spoke from her chest region. 'Acknowledged. We'll send them one at a time.'

Malcolm wondered if he'd ever get used to seeing that glitter resolving into people. But he faded to the door and motioned to the security men who'd been shadowing them since the transporter room.

The first of the wounded was human, male, with a bandaged leg and arm. From how Phlox was tutting over the man, the injuries were legitimate.

Malcolm let the door close, and started giving his security their orders.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> V'Lor is a green-quality Security duty officer, available for purchase from the duty officer store when you hit Colonial tier 1. She is obviously not hot-headed, but of course if violence is the only logical solution, she's not going to hold back, either.


	5. Malcolm, the next day

**Malcolm**

The next morning, Malcolm arrived bright and early on the bridge. His captain wasn't immediately in evidence, but a crewman's thumb pointed him to the ready room.

Captain Archer was indeed in residence in the small room, sucking down coffee as if it were life's blood. 'Mm? How'd the transfer go last night?'

'We received seven injured, sir. Six humans and one Vulcan,' Malcolm reported. 'All reasonably coherent, but with injuries that require bed-rest. The humans, sir, seem very _impressed_ to be on _Enterprise_.'

'But you can't impress a Vulcan.'

'I don't know if you can make one _very_ impressed, sir, but both he and Lieutenant V'Lor seemed to consider the ship a historical artifact.'

'Mm.' Archer regarded the dark depths of his cup and said, 'Malcolm... Do you think they talk like T'Pol?'

'Sir?'

'Like they're the grownups, and we're the brats they're babysitting. Or something.'

'Sir. Ah.' He thought for a moment. The captain had something there. 'Not... quite, no, sir.'

'And Captain-or-Admiral T'En?'

That merited a longer moment of thought, comparing T'Pol, V'Lor, the patient in Phlox's Sickbay... 'No, sir. There's something about her...'

'Mm?'

Malcolm tried to put it into words that wouldn't sound entirely stupid. 'Vulcans are usually... _terse_ , sir. Captain T'En seems...'

'Friendly?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Hm.' Archer stared into his coffee again. 'Malcolm. I think Trip's going to be busy in Engineering when lunch rolls around. Join us.'

That was unexpected. He said, 'Me, sir?'

Seemingly ignoring the question, the captain continued, 'And he's a little upset about what the gate effects did to our drive, and what running away did, and Vulcans in general, and he's complaining he won't get to look at _their_ drives. So maybe it's a good idea to poke our new friends with a stick -- very carefully -- and see what comes out... But I think I can rely on T'Pol to do that for me, this time. Besides, if T'En brings her security, we should have ours.' Archer paused. 'Pistol only, set for stun, Malcolm.'

He tried to concealed his disappointment. 'I'll make arrangements in my schedule, sir. Here's the full report on the injured from the _Oath_.' He held out the pad, Captain Archer took it, and Malcolm went to make those necessary arrangements.

After all, he'd have to assign someone to take his place on watch, plus he was going to want this recorded and broadcast to Hoshi in case anyone slipped into alien languages, _and_ he needed to get one of the hands-free communicators dug out of whatever suit it'd been put into, so Hoshi could warn him if their visitors said anything like, _Terribly sorry, T'Pol, but we have to destroy the ship now. Get your belongings and meet us at the shuttle bay._

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot imagine that they wouldn't have earbud communicators for Security. I don't care if they're canon, _modern day Earth_ has them. *jazzhands* ALTERNATE UNIVERSE! *jazzhands*


	6. Malcolm, at noonish shiptime

**Malcolm**

The beam-in took place in Sickbay, because it exposed less of the ship to scrutiny -- but ostensibly because it let Captain T'En check on her people. Malcolm, Captain Archer, T'Pol and Dr Phlox stood back while the green sparks resolved into the two Vulcan women.

When they did... Malcolm blinked to realise that Captain T'En was short. Not much shorter than, say, Hoshi, but approximately shoulder-high to both T'Pol and her own Lt V'Lor. Further, instead of the somewhat elongated physical structure of the Vulcan women Malcolm had seen -- admittedly a tiny sample -- Captain T'En was compact, with a thicker waist than he would've expected.

That waist, he quickly noted, had a swordbelt on it, the sword itself at her left hip. The scabbard was fancy, but the hilt was rather less-so; he marked it as a real weapon, not just for show. Her pose was relaxed, but balanced, and combined with her relative stockiness, he might've thought of a particularly feminine fireplug -- except for the bird-like way she was glancing around, noting everything, perhaps photographing it with that lens that covered or replaced her right eye.

Lieutenant V'Lor was doing the same, of course, though focusing on the _Enterprise_ crew and moving only her eyes. Malcolm was sure both of them had seen that he was the only one armed, and that it was... well, a larger pistol than what V'Lor had. Maybe she'd assume it was more powerful.

Maybe he was indulging in wishful thinking.

Rather than dwell on that, he tried to spot where either of them might have concealed weapons. V'Lor's jumpsuit was loose enough to have a knife somewhere at the arm or leg, though he doubted she'd bother. T'En's bluish-black clothing started with a thick, leather-like shirt -- almost a jacket, really -- that met very tight leggings. Those quickly vanished into thigh-high, flat-heeled boots. There could easily be a blade there, he supposed, but he didn't see any suspicious lumps or hilts.

Captain Archer stepped forward first, as soon as it seemed the two women had gotten their bearings. 'Welcome to the _Enterprise_. This is Lieutenant Reed, and my science officer, T'Pol. As you can see, we have some of your crew here, and the others are in a room just around the corner.'

'Thank you all for caring for my people,' T'En said, and turned to move over to the beds. A single thin banner hung from her right shoulder-decoration, fluttering behind her. Dr Phlox was immediately at her side, discussing the various injuries and his treatments. She replied in kind, and Malcolm mentally sighed; they were both speaking English, but it was entirely incomprehensible. Even Hoshi would probably have trouble with 'High Medicalese'.

V'Lor, despite Phlox's proximity to her captain, didn't seem concerned by that. She was, Malcolm decided, watching _T'Pol_ the most intently -- which was strange. He didn't think that he'd been dismissed as a threat (fortunately for his self-esteem), and Archer certainly wasn't helpless, but for some reason, the _Oath_ 's security thought that her fellow Vulcan was the greatest threat. Or was waiting for secret Vulcan signals, perhaps.

Vulcans were _irritating_.

Once T'En had checked over her people in the main part of Sickbay, they headed to where the less seriously injured waited -- mere cracked ribs and cleanly-broken legs, rather than extensive burns.

Malcolm lagged behind -- but T'Pol lagged further, speaking quietly to the Vulcan patient. Malcolm turned to let the microphone have a better chance of picking up their conversation and let T'Pol pass him in the hallway.

Hovering at the doorway while Phlox and T'En repeated their arcane medical rituals -- and T'Pol and V'Lor continued to eye each other like passive-aggressive cats -- Malcolm murmured, "Did you get that?"

 _'I hate spying on her,'_ Hoshi's voice complained into his ear-phone. _'She asked if there were many humans on the **Oath**. He said yes. She asked how he handled being among them. He said, "One gets used to it. Or one does not join the academy."'_

'Thank you,' Malcolm murmured again, and arranged himself at the doorway, where he could just stun everyone and sort them out later if that dress sword came out.

To his surprise, T'Pol joined him. Voice low, she said, 'The sword is... an unusual choice.' Then she moved off again, leaving him to stew over the information.

Well, perhaps he could ask about it directly. T'En wasn't smacking it into anything as she moved about, so even a Vulcan might be drawn out about a hobby or martial tradition she was skilled in.

In the meantime, he looked for more clues. Was she more typically aloof with her own people, with her apparent openness reserved for the _Enterprise_ crew in some diplomatic affectation? ...it seemed not. If anything, her own crew were more reserved about _her_ , though they called her 'Captain' or 'Admiral' interchangeably, and she merely respected their distance.

Malcolm wondered if _raised by wolves_ meant _raised by **humans**_. Then he wondered how that could happen, since she was clearly on good terms with Vulcans of her own.

Perhaps she'd talk about it as dinner conversation.

A Vulcan who might make small talk... No wonder T'Pol was watching the pale captain as if she might turn into a werewolf at any moment.

The walk through the halls to the captain's mess was without incident. They passed a few crewmen -- including a couple of security who were 'just happening' to be there -- and T'En noted them with bird-like twitches of her head, but then ignored them entirely, even when they stared.

At the door to the captain's mess, Archer said, 'Ladies first,' and with a head-tip, she went in, followed by V'Lor and T'Pol. Archer was next, with Malcolm last -- which let him nod to his security people in the outer mess before he stepped into the small dining room.

The tableau made him wish he'd insisted on being first. T'Pol was standing by her place at the table, across from the door. One of her hands was extended toward T'En -- the short captain stood at the foot of the table -- but her wrist was in the grip of V'Lor's left hand, as the security woman leaned past her captain. T'En herself stood as if entirely unconcerned.

Giving Malcolm a _stand down_ gesture (which was entirely unfair, since V'Lor had her hand on her weapon, so there was no reason he shouldn't have his hand likewise), Archer asked, with the tone of someone trying to calm a family argument, 'Is something wrong?'

T'En said, 'No, Captain Archer. But if you would pardon us a moment?' She didn't wait for his answer, but lapsed into Vulcan. Malcolm caught 'V'Lor' in the words, and indeed, the lieutenant spoke next.

Hoshi's translation whispered into his ear. _'T'En: "I understand your concerns. Lieutenant V'Lor, please tell our cousin that this action could endanger her ship, even aside from the risk of paradox." V'Lor: "She is accurate. If this was not a bluff, the risk is beyond your experience."'_ T'Pol made a tight comment, and as V'Lor released her, Hoshi added, _'T'Pol: "It was. My apologies."'_

This was clear as mud to Malcolm, though it apparently made sense to all three Vulcans, with T'En seating herself as if nothing had happened, T'Pol seating herself like an angry cat pretending nothing had happened, and V'Lor stationing herself at the wall behind her captain with the clear intent that nothing (further) _should_ happen.

Archer, who'd paused mid-sitting as well, dropped into the seat and waved Malcolm to take the fourth one, though he'd rather have stayed upright as well. Archer said, 'So everyone's all right now?'

T'Pol answered, 'Yes, Captain.'

T'En added, 'We're fine now.'

Malcolm wished he'd had Captain Archer wearing an earpiece, since _potential danger to the ship_ didn't seem 'fine' to him, and all three of the pointy-eared women had closed ranks on some kind of Vulcan secret. But there was no way to pass that information along right now, so he just sat down. His shoulder-blades itched, even though he could easily see V'Lor from his chair.

'We can bring another place setting,' Archer offered, waving at the security Vulcan.

'I'm on duty, sir,' V'Lor replied.

'Ah. Of course.' Captain Archer's defeat in the face of Vulcan sensibilities was palpable to Malcolm.

Unexpectedly, V'Lor added, 'The thought is... appreciated, sir.'

Archer made a little grunt of surprise. 'Well. All right, then.' As food was brought in -- Vulcan soup and human salad -- he said, 'Captain... or Admiral?'

T'En sat with her hands in her lap, watching the food-delivery process with birdlike twitches of her head. She oriented on Archer. 'Please, "Captain" is fine. Or my name. As I said, my promotions have all been in the field. I command a ship, and that seems the most important job.'

'T'En,' Archer said, taking the invitation. 'Exactly how far in the future are you from?'

'Approximately two hundred and fifty years, give or take a decade,' she replied.

Malcolm supposed that in all that time, Vulcans must have unbent enough to say they 'appreciated' offers of human courtesy. His captain apparently came to the same conclusion, saying, 'I'm glad to know our two species have managed to get along all that time.'

He could've sworn that grey eye was crinkling with suppressed humour. 'There are those in the galaxy who rue the day humans and Vulcans met each other. The leader of that ship we captured, for one, and many or most of his crew, for others.'

'And you really don't want us talking to them, huh?' Captain Archer said.

'And I really don't want you talking to them, no.' She sipped water -- still wearing gloves, Malcom noted. The backs were covered with shining metal scales that caught the light. 'This is far too early in the Fe-- in Starfleet's history, to be learning certain things and thus second-guessing yourselves.'

'Well.' Archer took a drink of ice tea that wasn't quite a swig. 'That's going to make small-talk interesting.'

'If you wanted a boring life, Captain Archer,' T'En said with deadpan serenity, 'you would never have left Earth.'

Malcolm was glad he didn't have anything in his mouth. He might've choked at the thought that a Vulcan had just displayed humour.

'You got that right,' Archer agreed, and lifted his glass in a toast. The other captain mirrored him, and they all concentrated on the food for a little while. After a bit, he added, 'I, ah, know that Vulcans don't touch their food with their hands. Is that part of what the gloves are for?' He gestured with a fork.

T'En looked bland and blank -- typical Vulcan, really, until she cocked her head a precise degree to the side. 'A personal idiosyncrasy, Captain.' She lifted a hand, palm facing herself, and peeled one of the gloves half-off. Thin black metal strips gleamed in parallel lines along her hand, a bit like a child's drawing of a skeleton. It matched the colour of the metal around her right eye's lens. She pulled the glove back down to her wrist. 'Charging plates. Most people find my eyepiece and colouration disconcerting enough.'

T'Pol was the one who said, 'Charging plates?' Malcolm thought she sounded just the slightest bit offended -- but then, she usually did.

The shorter alien looked to her, fast and precise. 'While I can maintain my systems on bioconversion of food alone, I would be constantly eating. It would be inefficient.'

T'Pol said, 'Systems?'

'My eyepiece. Certain parts of my musculature. The bioconversion process itself.'

Archer asked, 'Is that a standard sort of... augmentation?'

Her gaze darted back to him. 'Not for Vulcans. It's part of that long story I mentioned. Would that be suitable lunch conversation?'

'Up to you, ma'am,' Archer said.

'I think I can elide the temporally sensitive parts.' She spooned up soup as easily as anyone else at the table, despite the way she would twitch her head a little when focusing on things.

Maybe that was part of the 'systems'.

After swallowing, T'En said, 'I hope that someone is recording this.'

Malcolm nearly jumped; she _hadn't_ done her usual head-twitch, but she'd definitely glanced at him.

She went on. 'I'm sure it will be of interest to the rest of your bridge crew -- though I hope you will lock it down as top secret and ask them not to spread the details around. Is this acceptable?'

Malcolm's captain did _not_ look at him. 'We'll do our best, ma'am.'

' _Enterprise_ captains usually do,' she said, which made the hair stand up on the back of Malcolm's neck.

Two hundred and fifty years. It wouldn't likely be the same ship for that long, which meant the name was one that'd get re-used again and again. The weight of history -- future history -- pressed down on him for a moment.

'There is,' T'En said, 'a race in the galaxy that is very effective at conquest. These conquerors acquire members of different species, and augment them in various ways. The augmentation includes both physical and neural modifications and, via those neural implants, brainwashing.'

That matter-of-fact description gave Malcolm chills of an entirely different sort.

'They're a long way away. Starfleet will meet them eventually, of course, but the true threat is over a hundred years in your future.' A bite of salad seemed to dismiss the matter.

T'Pol said, 'Discipline and training should counter such things.'

'The brainwashing is very effective. And if it is not effective, the prisoner is destroyed.' She let that statement stand while she sipped her water. 'In any case, I do not remember my parent or parents. I have perhaps one memory prior to my... indoctrination, of being carried by one of the soldiers of the conquerors. As per standard procedure, I would have been given the basic neural implants, and placed within a forced-growth chamber. Over the next few years, while knowledge and indoctrination were imparted to me via the implants, my body was grown to adulthood, final modifications were made, and I was assigned to a... cohort.'

Only a Vulcan could be so cold, talking about an experience like that, Malcolm thought. He focused on the soup. That _plomeek_ stuff, he thought. Bland. But he could make himself swallow it when anything else would catch in his throat.

'My purpose in the cohort was threefold,' T'En went on. She touched her eyepiece. 'Firstly, as a scout, with my data processed, added to by others of the cohort, and turned into a virtual display for every member.' She moved her finger to beside her other eye. 'The overlay for that was removed.'

Malcolm thought he was probably staring in horror. He didn't want to look over his shoulder to see if his captain was equally shocked, but he could glance at the other Vulcans. V'Lor was poker-faced; presumably she knew all this already. T'Pol was watching intently.

'Secondly, I was given medical programming. The ship had decided-- Ah. A bad translation. Forgive me. It had been decided that, on that ship, cohort-members were to be salvaged at damage-levels higher than previous conqueror-ships considered reasonable. Or, in other words, units with injuries that would have had them destroyed in the past were to be aided instead. And I was one of the cohort-units assigned to render aid.'

'And thirdly?' someone asked. Malcolm realised it was him.

'To obtain cooperation and calmness from prisoners being taken for... processing. Especially young ones, such as I had been. That is why I did not have either of my arms replaced with weapons or tools. A more "natural" look was deemed to be more reassuring. I was an experiment -- rare, among the conquerors.'

'And what happened?' Once again, Malcolm realised he'd spoken.

She looked at him as she answered. 'My cohort -- a group of thirty, expected to live and act as one -- was beamed aboard a Fe-- a Starfleet ship. The combat went badly for us. We were unable to capture enough personnel or systems to secure the ship. Half of us were beamed back before the target's shields went back up. Then the conqueror ship was destroyed. Of the remainder of the cohort, half were or had been killed. And half of us were captured. That was the largest number of cohort-members that had been salvaged during battle.'

Archer said, 'Six or seven of you rescued, and that was a _lot_?'

'Yes.'

Archer settled back in his chair, letting out his breath in a wordless comment.

T'En said, 'The chief medical officer on that craft was, I believe, a genius. She removed many of the conquerors' modifications, and restored most of my digestive system as well as my reproductive organs, using cloning techniques.' She ignored Archer's dropped spoon, though it clattered a little on the table. 'Naturally, some compromises had to be made; I _can_ ingest nearly anything one would expect, but the more complex the food, the less I should eat of it at a time. It is one reason I am prone, as my bridge crew have noted, to obtain sustenance from nutrition shakes and power cords.'

T'Pol said, 'You have had no training.'

This apparently made sense somewhere in twisty Vulcan minds. T'En said, 'One of the neural implants damped emotion. Further, cohorts are expected to obey orders without hesitation, including those to kill or subjugate family or those who resemble family. Cohort members whose emotional reactions could not be damped were destroyed. I learned control, if not by the usual methods.'

'Why were you not returned to Vulcan for training?'

T'En sipped her water. 'Political and genetic concerns that I cannot elaborate on. I was given into the care of a small colony, and learned how to be an individual. Later, the colony was attacked; I was one of the few who escaped, and when rescuers appeared, I swore my fealty to their cause. After various field promotions...' She made a small gesture with her other hand, as if indicating the entirety of the ship around them. '...I volunteered to be a diplomatic liaison with Starfleet.'

T'Pol said, 'Genetic concerns?'

Before T'En could answer -- or say she wasn't going to answer -- there was a chirp from that end of the table. The pale captain said, 'Please excuse me.' She raised her wrist a little and tapped the chunky band there. 'An emergency, Ell?'

The responding voice was male this time. 'Not quite, Captain. Can you spare V'Lor?'

'I'm not sure.' She lifted her eye to T'Pol. 'Can I?'

After a moment, the _Enterprise_ 's resident Vulcan said, "Conditioning."

T'En said, 'Yes. If it were triggered, I might attempt to subjugate the nearest people, and take the ship for the conquerors.'

Her comm unit said, 'Captain? Has there been a problem?'

'Just a misunderstanding, Ell. Nothing serious.'

Captain Archer said, 'Malcolm.'

'Yes, sir?'

Archer made a little gesture with his fork, towards the pale Vulcan. 'If she needs to send her lieutenant back to her ship, but wants to at least finish her lunch, I'm assigning you to be her security.'

He swallowed. Blinked. 'Yes, sir.'

That single gray eye took them both in. She said, 'I think I can spare V'Lor, Ell. Captain Archer, permission to beam her out directly? I know it's rude during meals...'

'Ah, go ahead, go ahead.'

V'Lor tapped her insignia badge on her chest. It chirped. 'One to beam up,' she said, and a moment later vanished in a cloud of green sparks.

Malcolm was _really_ not going to get used to that.

Into the silence, T'En said, 'Might I ask what adventures the _Enterprise_ has already had? And if I might have permission to record your recounting? Certain historians would appreciate it.'

That was exactly the sort of question that could and did divert Captain Archer from trying to dig for more details, and Malcolm devoted himself to getting a bit more food into his stomach -- and making sure T'Pol wasn't going to do whatever-it-was that might tip Captain T'En into a murderous rampage.

But, thwarting any idle thoughts of hitting her with heavy stun, T'Pol seemed inclined to keep her hands to herself, and made minimal comments during the meal, mostly only when prompted by Captain Archer.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: It is my headcanon that somewhat prior to T'En winding up in a Borg Maturation Chamber -- come on, that's not a spoiler, is it? -- the Cube had assimilated an alien version of Jony Ive, and therefore at least a few drones were churned out who were sleeker than the usual sort, as prototypes for testing. Who knows? Maybe her Cube was experimenting with the Perfection of Rounded Rectangles...
> 
> 2: The bioconversion is a bit of hackery from the Starfleet doctor who de-Borged her, and also meant to explain how the heck she went through some of those missions without needing to be plugged in.
> 
> 3: Ell is a Bajoran Tactical Bridge Officer. He also gets to hold T'En's tribbles and holiday gear, the poor guy.


	7. Archer, at lunch

**Archer**

Archer noted that T'En was consistent: she ate more soup than salad, and paused occasionally. Exactly as one might expect from a "digestive system with compromises." She ate less precisely than T'Pol, as one might expect from someone "raised by wolves" -- but didn't seem to be trying to mimic T'Pol, either. Like someone who knew traditional Vulcan manners, and didn't _care_ she was cutting corners.

The most dangerous, un-Vulcan aspect of Captain T'En was that she was _good at small talk_. Not better than some humans, but compared to any other Vulcan Archer'd ever met? Very good. After a few stories of what the _Enterprise_ had encountered, she asked after his and Malcolm's families. She asked how the engines were doing, and expressed sympathies -- apparently the "time-rift device" had been on the ship she'd been chasing, and when they'd noticed it'd been modulating its warp drives, she'd had the _Oath_ follow suit.

She listened, too. T'Pol would be quiet, and you sure knew she was attending to the conversation around her, but you got the feeling she was judging. If T'En was judging... she was approving. Apparently two hundred and fifty years, and a non-traditional upbringing, made for a _sociable_ Vulcan.

The two hundred and fifty years had some effect on its own, though. He'd never have expected the security woman to express appreciation for his attempt to get her to loosen up while she was on duty.

Archer didn't trust these time-travelers, but he kind of hoped their attitudes would rub off on _his_ science officer.

Finally, anecdotes wound down, and everyone's plate was clear enough that he was working around to _gotta get back to work_. Which was when T'En said, "I imagine you have work I am keeping you from, Captain Archer."

"Afraid so," he sighed. And he wasn't prying much useful out of T'En this way; she took that _don't want to suicide via temporal paradox_ idea seriously. "It's been a fantastic lunch, T'En. I'm glad you could make it."

"It's either be diplomatic or help in my ship's sickbay," she replied. "And my chief medical officer isn't so overworked that she wants me underfoot, or I'd have been called back as well. So diplomacy is all I'm good for right now."

That was another difference: Ego. She didn't seem to have the Vulcan ego: haughty and know-it-all, the lot of them. Especially when they had a point, and most especially when it was a damned good point.

Archer decided that, just maybe, that should _worry_ him, not reassure him. (Malcolm would be proud of him developing a little healthy paranoia, right?) What if she'd made a study of humans, and was wrapping them around her gloved fingers? What if that fight with the "enemy ship" was all some extremely expensive bit of stage management, designed to... do something?

Except maybe she'd tell T'Pol?

T'En folded her hands on the table in front of her, decorously. "While I do not want to keep you from your duties, Captain Archer, I am amenable to remaining on your ship as a hostage, along with my injured crew."

"That's not--" he started.

She held up a hand, and he stopped because he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say to that anyway. She said, "I don't believe you would _treat_ me as a hostage to my ship's good behavior, but if it would reassure you or others of your crew? The arrangement would only become complicated if the medical situation on the _Oath_ changed, to require my skills." Her clockwork tic tilted her chin slightly to the left. "Of course, if you would rather I were off your ship, I would not wish to presume upon you, either."

Archer was suddenly very aware that he had a small Vulcan, entirely separated from her security (because even with her communicator and their transporter technology, a stunner-hit from behind was still possible). And she was offering to stay or go at his bidding, as a matter of politeness.

She was either exactly what she claimed to be, or dangerous as hell.

He needed to talk to T'Pol, and not just to demand to know what she'd tried to do earlier, that'd made T'En's security react. And depending on the results of that talk, he might _want_ T'En around, to answer some questions. So if he sent her away too fast, he might not be able to get her back.

(In the back of his mind, he thought maybe injured crew weren't very good hostages. A Vulcan'd probably give the order to blow up a handful of crewmen, if "logic" dictated it. But would her second in command blow _her_ up? ...he needed to talk to the _Oath_ 's crew, and get a sense of the _Oath_ 's chain of command, and how much they liked Captain T'En. Or trusted her.)

Out loud, he said, "Malcolm, if our guest would like to see any of the historic parts of our ship, would you escort her around?"

His tactical officer darted him a _Me, sir?_ look, but only said, "Ah, my pleasure, Captain. Ma'am," he added, nodding a little awkwardly.

"Excellent. T'Pol, I need to discuss a few of those energy readings."

As he and his science officer rose, T'En said, "They're all classified."

"Can't blame a man for trying," he told her with a grin, and headed out the door.

T'Pol caught up with him in the corridor outside the mess hall, matching his pace. "My apologies, Captain."

She was anticipating him. He snapped, "Yes, just what _was_ all that about?"

She was silent for another few strides. "A form of non-verbal communication. I am aware that T'En's remarks will be recorded and translated. I wished to determine if she desired to impart any data without being monitored. Apparently, she did not, though I believe she and her security misunderstood the precise nature of my... offer."

"And this... secret Vulcan handshake might send her berserk?"

"I would need to discuss the exact mechanism by which that might be the case, but it is not entirely impossible the method might have been... used in brainwashing."

"So you believe her."

"I believe it is possible. I believe she has had extensive modifications made, which her companion does not have. I believe her companion was _not_ , as T'En put it, 'raised by wolves,' and therefore her defensive reaction is plausibly based upon a logical concern." She paused. "Though that may simply be related to the temporal complications."

God save him from Vulcan logic, which only rarely answered anything. "So do we trust them, pat her on the head, send her back to her ship, offload her people when we get our engines working, and warp off on our original heading?"

"I am not sure what else we _can_ do, Captain."

And that was the crux of the whole mess. He _hated_ feeling so... powerless. He stopped and looked along the corridor; no one passing at the moment. He dropped his voice. "I'd like to know if she's lying. If it's all one _huge_ lie, from start to finish, to _manipulate_ us into something."

T'Pol was silent again.

"Tell me, T'Pol. Even if it's just a hunch. _Tell me._ "

"Vulcans do not have 'hunches,' Captain."

Someone was coming along the corridor. Archer gave the crewman a wave and jerked his head for T'Pol to follow him. He'd have to come back to talk to the _Oath_ 's people. "Let's go to my ready room. I want an assessment by the time we get there. Hunches or not."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: T'En has the "twitchy" pose. It is my headcanon that her eye-lens has little timers ticking around the sides by default, to remind her to keep glancing around and keep the area surveyed. She can turn it off, but it's a little disconcerting.
> 
> 2: Possible spoiler: At this point in time, telepathy is apparently something Vulcans are being slightly less-than-okay with -- on the other hand, I believe the general canon is that they're still touch-empaths. And the only exposed skin T'En was showing was her cute white head. Poor T'Pol. Misunderstood.


	8. Malcolm, at lunch, with orders

**Malcolm**

Malcolm had been abandoned by his captain, told to keep a diplomatic guest entertained and out of trouble. He supposed this meant they had a 'hostage'. He wondered if that bothered the Vulcan; she'd brought it up in the first place, but how could you _tell_?

'Ah... Would you like anything else?' he offered. 'Dessert? A drink?' Wait, that sounded flirtatious. He hoped she wouldn't notice.

'Sugar is always a useful biofuel,' T'En replied. 'But I will require approximately half a Terran hour before I can ingest anything further.'

Please don't let her ask for any amusing anecdotes, Malcolm prayed. 'Would you like to, ah, see...' He tried to think of what she should be allowed to see. The rec room? Would a Vulcan care about the rec room? Wouldn't that be too trivial for them?

'If I might look at your chief medical officer's collection of plants and animals, I would be fascinated,' she said, rescuing him. 'I assume that would not pose too much of a security risk?' she added, which rather brought home the point that she had the mind of a trained paranoid.

'So long as Doctor Phlox doesn't mind,' he said, and got up. He had a brief moment of concern about whether he'd be expected to get her chair for her, but she didn't seem to expect that behavior.

He gestured her to the door, close enough that the motion detectors opened it, and she strolled past. He glanced down as he followed, to make sure he wasn't going to run into that dress sword of hers, and found himself checking the tops of those tall boots for weapons again.

Those leggings were _very_ tight.

She wended through the tables at the general mess hall -- not thwacking anyone with the scabbard _or_ letting her trailing shoulder-banner flutter into anyone's face. Malcolm became suspicious that she wasn't wearing a _dress_ uniform so much as a well turned-out version of whatever she usually wore.

Which, stylistically, didn't bear much resemblance to what her security'd been wearing -- that'd been a bit closer in fashion to what T'Pol generally wore (i.e., a walking distraction). Admiral's outfit, for all that she seemed to prefer being addressed as 'Captain'?

'You're thoughtful,' she said, and he realised he'd escorted her halfway to Sickbay without saying anything.

'I, ah, didn't expect Vulcans to approve of idle chatter,' he said, which was the first true thing to jump to mind that wasn't _I was thinking about overly tight Vulcan clothing, and did you paint those leggings on?_

'But most humans do,' she said, with a sidelong look out of her left eye.

'Ah.' He thought a bit desperately. 'Lovely weather we're having?'

'I'm sure the windows have excellent views of the stars,' she replied, gaze straight ahead and so Vulcanly deadpan that he didn't know if he was being rebuked, teased, or simply humoured.

Fortunately, Sickbay loomed, and he was able to hand off the conversational load to Dr Phlox, who was _delighted_ to discuss every single one of his beasties and plants. And T'En was either politely or sincerely interested, for she followed along from cage to cage and pot to pot, asking questions in High Sciencese (a close cousin to High Medicalese).

Apparently those conquerors had been thorough in training their medics.

One of the _Oath_ 's crew, a badly burned human with both arms in casts, called quietly, 'Hey.'

'Do you need something?' Malcolm asked, moving to the man's side.

'I'm fine.' He looked drugged to the gills on painkillers, though he was forcing himself to focus on Malcolm. 'Where's the Admiral's security?'

'They needed her back on your ship. Someone called -- L?'

'Ell. Right.' The man nodded, relaxing. 'Good man. Knows his wormholes.'

'Wormholes?'

'Places in space that connect.' The man's shoulders twitched as he tried to gesture and couldn't. 'Connect in ways that mock the laws of physics, the academy teacher said.'

'Like the one you came out of?' Malcolm asked.

'Time-travel's kind of optional with wormholes, I hear. You'd have to ask Ell.'

'If he wants to visit,' Malcolm said.

Behind him, Captain T'En said, 'He can't. Humans haven't discovered his species yet, so he has to stay off the _Enterprise_. It might be awkward if first contact with his people included someone pointing and exclaiming that they were going to provide fine officers to Starfleet. That's the sort of thing that can be easily misunderstood.'

Malcolm thought that over. 'I see what you mean, Admiral.'

'You're also allowed to call me T'En,' she said. 'I'm here as a diplomat. Though I should probably ask to see something else, before you start interrogating my crew.'

Phlox added, 'Yes, yes. Everyone here needs their rest. It's the middle of their sleep-cycle, after all. Off you go!' He flapped his hands in a genial way, and Malcolm found himself and T'En in the hallway outside Sickbay.

Now what? Malcolm tried to think of something interesting to show her. Aside from the oddity of a Vulcan _interested_ in anything human-made, the _Enterprise_ was meant to explore, not to be a showpiece for representatives of uncertain friendliness. And he wasn't going to apologise for that, like he'd invited a girl over and realised his flat needed cleaning. 'Ah, is there anything else you'd like to see?' he asked.

'Well, I suspect there's hydroponics, because the vegetables were fresh,' she said. 'That would be fascinating, but you probably don't want me near one of your food-sources. There are science labs, which would be interesting, but you might consider the abilities of your sensors and analysis equipment to be sensitive information -- you'd rather be underestimated. I'm sure you're not going to let me on your bridge, and even aside from your engineer's likely displeasure to have intruders in his domain, the layout of engineering is another bit of sensitive information.'

He tried not to look aghast at her offhand and accurate assessment of his own security-minded thoughts.

'That really leaves your lounge -- if there is one on this model -- or your recreation areas.' She lightly touched the hilt of her sword with her left hand. 'Or if you fenced, we could spar.'

'I, ah, didn't know that Vulcans used swords.' He remembered T'Pol saying it was _unusual_.

'Most civilised ones don't, that's true,' T'En replied. 'Feral Vulcans, on the other hand...' She tapped the hilt again, with the heel of that hand.

'I wish we had a proper salle,' he said, and wondered if they could move enough of the exercise equipment out of the way...

'Ah. A pity.' She looked up at him, with that avian head-tilting. 'Perhaps the dessert and drink, then?'

'Yes, of course!' he started off, leading the way back to the mess hall, and realised, two strides later, that he was _flustered_.

Telling himself _She is a Vulcan and she is not interested in you_ was clearly going to be the reminder of the evening.

There were always some people in the mess hall; it was too small to handle everyone at once, and everyone still needed food, and the cooks would probably begin stabbing people if they started dropping in to grab a bite and avoid the crowds. But Malcolm was able to give meaningful looks and secure a table back in a corner of the room. T'En picked the seat facing the corner, to his surprise. Then he asked what she wanted, was informed 'anything with sugar, and whatever goes with it', and set out to retrieve cake and milk.

'You're not trying to get me drunk?' she asked, accepting the glass and plate from him.

He paused, and realised he hadn't gotten her water or juice. 'Ah--' Did Vulcans drink milk? It wasn't meat, and he suspected the amount of actual milk powder was low, but...

'It wouldn't have worked. My digestive system has a few fail-safes.' She tasted the milk without hesitation. 'Aren't you going to get yourself something?'

So there was nothing for it but to go back and get himself a matching dessert and milk, and sit himself down while worrying that he'd managed to commit some terrible Vulcan _faux pas_.

If he had, she was ignoring it. She wasn't eating with more gusto than the rest of the lunch had gotten, but certainly not with less. After a few bites, she said, 'This is good. A much higher sugar content than nepeta brownies.'

'Nepeta... brownies?' He tried to think what _nepeta_ was. Some alien plant?

'An associate in Starfleet swears by them. I never understood the appeal, but I do keep trying them, just in case.'

'I don't believe I've had any.'

He'd nearly forgotten Hoshi was listening in, and that he was wearing an earpiece. _'Nepeta is the genus of catnip.'_ She sounded bored, and faintly distracted.

Malcolm said, 'Ah, was your associate _human_?'

T'En's eye focused on him, with another birdlike twitch. 'No. But don't jump to conclusions. There are a few species who like nepeta, and not all of them are friendly to humans. And I don't know which of them humanity met first.'

'I... see.' He finished his own cake a bit hurriedly, out of nerves, reminded himself that Vulcans were not interested in humans, and said, 'Ah, how long will you be...'

'That will depend on how long it takes for Captain Archer to decide I'm not a threat to his ship,' she said, and licked frosting off her fork. 'If it's longer than twenty-four hours, I may start asking for sugar-water so my eyepiece won't have to power down.'

Sugar-water, like a hummingbird. 'I'm sure we'll be able to sort things out before then,' he said, and hoped he wasn't lying. 'But, ah, will you be needing... I've heard, you see, that Vulcans find humans a bit...' Strong-smelling. Pungent. Ripe. _Whiff._

She shrugged. 'The cohorts considered species odor to be irrelevant. There were several humans in my cohort, and two of them were captured -- rescued -- along with me. I regard them as... akin to sisters.'

'You keep in touch with them?'

'I do now. I think it was considered a good idea to separate us, at the time, lest we... synergise and attempt to return to the conquerors' service. The colony I was given to... was not well-connected in terms of remaining in contact with the other survivors of my cohort.' She set the fork down gently on the now-empty plate.

Malcolm tried to imagine having no family, no grandparents, no uncles. No roots. And then being ripped away from the only familiar faces he'd known. And then it'd happened all over again, she'd said, when the colony was attacked.

'How are they doing?' he asked. 'Your... sisters.'

'Well. They both joined Starfleet. Fourteen is still very reticent by human standards, but Eight has become quite... What is the word? Perky? Having the emotional inhibitors removed apparently agreed with her.'

'You call them by numbers?' Malcolm asked.

'Like myself, they were taken very young. The cohort-designation is all the name some of us remember. Even those who recall their old names may keep a cohort-designation due to a dissociative reaction to the trauma of being brainwashed and serving in the conquerors' army.'

Eight. Fourteen. He paused. 'T'En. Ten.'

She looked at him, that silver-pale eye intent. 'Ten of Thirty. I answer to it in several different languages.'

'That's a _pun_. An English... to Vulcan... _pun_.' He was incredulous.

She leaned forwards a little and smiled at him, ears and slanted eyebrow making it entirely impish. 'Feral Vulcans are terrible, terrible people, Lieutenant Reed.'

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: Allegedly, Seven of Nine got tipsy on champagne at one point. Ten's digestion is more efficient; she only gets drunk if she deliberately flips a few settings on her bioconversion processes.
> 
> 2: Admiral Tuftears insists that he is _not_ Ten's personal Confiscate Contraband mission, but she keeps "assimilating" his nepeta brownies when she catches him with them, even though it doesn't affect her at all.
> 
> 3: Ten will answer to "Ten" or "Ten of Thirty" (or T'En) in literally any language she recognizes. She's a polyglot.


	9. Archer, in the ready room

**Archer**

In Captain Archer's ready room, T'Pol said, "I do not trust her. Her behavior is consistent with her story, but that does not mean she is trustworthy."

Archer wondered what'd happened to _Vulcans don't lie._ Perhaps T'Pol had been irritated with _everyone_ involved in that Andorian matter. He pressed on. "So you think she's dangerous?"

"Of course she is dangerous, Captain. She commands a ship the _Enterprise_ could not hope to defeat or escape, even if our engines were working perfectly."

Never ask a Vulcan to be reassuring. "Now, see, that's why I need to know what she's going to _do_."

"If she had wanted to destroy us..."

"She'd have done it already, right. Unless..." Archer waved a hand. "You've talked to the other one, in Sickbay, right?"

"We have exchanged a few words. His perspective is..." She paused and he waited to find out what precise word was going to be applied to one of her people whose _parents_ might not've even been born yet.

She finished, "Unfamiliar."

Archer sighed. "Go... go talk to him some more, if you can. Find out if this is all some big _hidden_ thing--" (like the listening station under that shrine, and her eyelid flicker said she caught the reminder loud and clear) "--that's supposed to manipulate us into something, or if he thinks his captain's doing what she says."

"Yes, Captain." She turned to go, then paused and looked over her shoulder. "Consider, Captain. If we are being manipulated, we must also be prepared to accept that from their perspective, we _were_ manipulated, two hundred and fifty years ago, and they learned this in their history classes. If the future is acceptable, we might be wise to accede to this."

He grunted, waved her out, and when the door had closed, grumbled, "Lie back and enjoy it, eh?" He wasn't convinced. He was _not_ convinced. Humanity didn't get where it was now by letting Vulcans -- even ones who looked like ghost-pirates and made small talk like diplomats -- dictate to them.

There were two rooms with _Oath_ crewmembers in them. He could slip on down while T'Pol was talking to the Vulcan.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for an _Enterprise_ episode: Look, if you didn't want humans poking around and maybe discovering your COVERT SENSOR STATION, you should've told their babysitter to keep them away from the place. You don't tell her, she can't tell them not to disturb the holy monks, so she decides to let the humans drop in, show how nicely she's trained them to not make messes on the floor, and then they were supposed to leave again...
> 
> Yeah, my headcanon is that T'Pol is not exactly happy about that one.


	10. Malcolm, on diplomatic escort duty

**Malcolm**

Malcolm's first thought was: There is a Vulcan woman smiling at me. His second thought moved the emphasis from _woman_ to where it belonged: _Vulcan_. His third thought underlined _smiling_ a few times. His fourth thought went something along the lines of: _You're staring, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed._

T'En -- or Ten -- twitched her expression back to a more Vulcan neutrality. 'My apologies. Sugar rush.' She didn't sound sorry. She sounded like someone who would play the straight man with full awareness, deliberately, just to string along people who thought she was... humourless.

'How... does that even _work_?' he asked.

'The sugar rush is a fast supply of energy to all my systems, biological and otherwise.' She was doing it again, being literal and evasive at the same time. She bird-twitched her head to the side. 'The rest is a discussion of nature versus nurture, and probably not one your science officer would want getting around. Mm, not for another hundred years, anyway. Approximately.'

'I... won't tell her.'

T'En's -- Ten's? -- bird-glances indicated the rest of the room, which still wasn't crowded, but had a few more people than when they'd come in. 'Gossip gets around, Lieutenant Reed.'

'Please, call me Malcolm,' he said automatically.

'Malcolm.' The ghost of a smile touched her lips. 'Unlike my civilised cousins, I don't have a _preference_ for silence. If you want to take me somewhere more private for interrogating, I can talk about things that... probably won't matter to the timeline, so long as they don't become common knowledge.'

'I might have to brief the captain,' he said.

'Or you could tell him it was a personal discussion, and ask for the recordings to be encrypted and marked "do not open" for the next hundred years.'

'I... would probably have to summarise.'

'So long as he doesn't agitate T'Pol with it. She doesn't deserve that.'

'She tried to-- to do--' What _had_ T'Pol been trying, anyway?

She -- he decided that T'En was how he should think of her, in case he slipped up in front of people who might object to a Vulcan making puns -- _T'En_ closed her eye and tilted her head. 'You should ask her. It was a bit rude. But her priorities must include protecting the ship and her fellow crew.' She opened her eye to look at him again and deadpanned, 'I can't talk about it. It's a Vulcan thing.'

Dear God, she was making jokes at him, and expecting him to catch them now that he knew. Now that he was _in_ on the joke.

Mostly in on it, anyway. He wasn't going to get entirely in on the joke... Probably ever, but certainly not any further into it unless he 'interrogated' her, somewhere she felt comfortable talking.

'Let's... Let's go for a walk, shall we?' he asked, standing up abruptly.

She stood up as well, and collected the plates and glasses he'd forgotten. 'And these?'

He considered letting someone else tidy up, just this once, but picked up the plates and silverware. 'Here, this way,' he said, and T'En followed with the glasses, tucking them into the return-cabinet without fanfare or suggestion that cleaning her own table was beneath her rank.

The next question was where to go walking. Stay on E-deck? Go up to C-deck and the gymnasium? Shooting pool might've been an idea earlier, but not right now... He'd never realised before how bloody few private places there were on the ship.

His own quarters? Perhaps a little _too_ private.

The conference rooms? One of them ought to be available, and there was a lavatory off the main one, and likely he should splash his face with cold water and remind himself that piratical Vulcan girls were probably up to no good.

Plus there was a window in there, so star-gazing...

Lavatory. Cold water. _Bloody_ cold water.

T'En strolled beside him, hands behind her back, shoulder-sash rippling.

He was in luck. The main conference room wasn't occupied; the lights came on as they entered. Malcolm said, 'Ah, if you'd excuse me?' and pointed in the direction of the conference room's facilities.

'Sensible,' she said, and went to go look out the window, craning her neck in bird-swift jerks to assess the extent of the view.

Malcolm tore himself away from looking at her -- her hair was glowing white against the blackness beyond the window -- and got the door closed between them. 'A moment of privacy, please,' he muttered. There was no response, which probably meant Hoshi wasn't paying _any_ attention anymore, and had just left the thing on 'record'. Probably she'd notice in an instant if someone used Vulcan, but till then...

He covered the microphone with one hand while he used the facilities. Washed his hands. Splashed cold water on his face. And, finally, emerged.

T'En was leaning against the window, eye focused on something... 'I can just barely see my ship from here,' she said. 'May I borrow that room back there for a moment as well?'

'Yes, of course,' he said, and stood aside politely. 'Through the kitchenette there.'

After the door slid shut, he muttered, 'Suggestions appreciated.'

Nothing. Hoshi'd gone off multi-tasking on something at best, or simply abandoned him and his boring English-only conversation, leaving him at the mercy of a small Vulcan on a mission of diplomacy. Well, not entirely at her mercy. Even aside from the people Malcolm had shadowing _him_ , he thought he could get a heavy stunner bolt into her if necessary. The trick would be doing so before she gave a signal to beam herself out, as V'Lor had done during lunch.

Unless T'En had some kind of failsafe that would signal her people to beam her out if she were stunned.

The problem with being concerned with the ship's safety was that unknown capabilities could send him down never-ending, always-branching rat holes.

What if she were beaming out _right now_? She probably could. Beam out, freshen up, beam right back (or not)... No, even if he didn't hear the odd whine of molecules being rearranged, someone else on _Enterprise_ would notice the energy signatures.

He was still relieved to see T'En emerge. Less relieved when she came to stand in front of him, just slightly within his personal space, looking up at him. She put her hands behind her back, and his gaze darted reflexively to the motion.

She perhaps misinterpreted it. 'Did you want to see my blade? I should have asked before wearing it; it is part of the formal uniform, but it's also seen use.'

He had to admit some curiosity. 'If you didn't mind.'

'It is all a question of trust.' She reached down and took the scabbard in her left hand, then brought her right to the hilt -- palm up. 'You trust me to draw the blade in fellowship, and I trust you,' she said, pulling it partway from its sheath and letting the base of the grip lie flat in her palm, 'not to snatch it from me and cut my hand.'

He didn't know if that was a traditional speech or simply logic, but he nodded, and very carefully took the hilt and drew it further. She didn't object, even when he pulled it entirely free and held it in the light.

He wasn't an expert in swords, but it looked very well-made. And, yes, like something that'd seen use, with a few small nicks in the back of the blade, above the sharpened half. The grip was a little uncomfortable, made and balanced for her smaller hand. He gave it back. 'What did you need to use it on?'

'Various,' she said, taking it and sheathing it again. 'Mostly... cohorts. Not mine, of course. My thirty are either free or dead. But the conquerors have their blind spots, and archaic weaponry is one of them.'

'Is that hard for you?' he asked, and then mentally kicked himself. Vulcans were cold and... and...

And she just looked at him gently. 'If I could release all cohorts from their subjugation to the will of the conquerors, I would. But in most cases, the alternative to killing is dying or rejoining them. And even on the nights when I am lonely for the voices of the cohort in my mind, I know it would betray my friends, who value their self-will.' She looked away, across the table and out at the stars. 'Most of the time, so do I, now.'

Malcolm had his own dose of reserve, of course. And one was firmly educated not to try to touch Vulcans without their permission -- certainly not to offer one a hug. 'I'm sorry,' he said.

She looked back to him. 'The conquerors are a virus, co-opting other species to their unending hunger for conquest. If they won, they would die, having killed all the host species, or left them with genetically inadequate numbers. Their tactics are unsustainable -- and their ability to change and adapt is limited. And I am not. My thanks to Starfleet for that.' Her mouth quirked, the expression a wry cousin to a smile.

Another man might've asked what form that gratitude might take. He _thought_ it, but it was not in him to say it, even in jest. 'You... said something about nature and nurture,' he recalled, instead.

'I did.' T'En reached out to one of the chairs, and pushed it aside, so she could hitch herself onto the table. She adjusted the scabbard to lie across it, then leaned back on her hands and looked up at him. 'I don't know how much you'd already know, but I have to start somewhere. So. Originally, Vulcans were not logical,' she said.

He shoved another chair out of the way so he could perch on the table near her. 'I would like to say something sarcastic about that,' he told her.

She bit her lip on a smile. 'A very human response. But it's true: Vulcans were once ruled by emotions. They were violent, cunning, ambitious, and ruthless -- entirely unconstrained by such things as "honour". Or, sometimes, even "cutting one's losses". The world was filled with blood-feuds and would-be rulers. Fine swords were forged and broken, as symbols of power or defeat -- even after more advanced weapons and technologies were brought to the battlefield. Including nuclear threats.'

Malcolm hoped Hoshi was recording all of this. 'And then...'

'Surak happened. Peace required logic. Logic to dictate when to cut one's losses. Logic to realise the loss of the entire world was worse than repaying an insult, or avenging bloodkin. Logic to rule emotions, and master them.' A bird-fast tilt of her head. 'This is why T'Pol will never advise trusting me. I was not raised in the traditions of peace and logic. Without sureties which I cannot give... She cannot trust that I will not run rabid.'

'You're saying... _all_ Vulcans are... are a bad day away from becoming bloodthirsty killers?'

T'En cocked her head, smiling. 'No. Naturally, the Vulcans who were most successful at mastering emotion -- or suppressing it -- were the ones who became more desirable as partners. The framework of logic, that civilised Vulcans are raised in, only supports this. The Vulcan _lirpa_ is a nasty weapon, with a curved blade on one side and a mace-head on the other. It's a symbol. With a sword, the key is, as humans say, to hold it so the sharp end goes into the _other_ person.'

Malcolm was surprised into a huff of amusement. She let him have that moment, then continued, 'The _lirpa_ , by contrast, has to be held in the middle. If the blade is used at full extension, the mace will be near one's own body, and can crack your ribs. Use the mace, and the blade is near your own skin. And an overhead chop downwards leaves you poorly defended. It's very symbolic. Violence without control harms the one who initiates it.'

'You... don't seem uncontrolled.'

'Oh, you haven't seen me giggling on my ship's bridge, in combat.' She grinned again and suddenly he could imagine it; she lacked only horns to seem devilish. 'Neither has T'Pol, but remember, I said the conquerors removed most of my abdominal organs, and my reproductive system had to be reconstructed. I would have been destroyed if I'd become too emotional while in the cohort, but I was not under hormonal influence, which is still the most potent threat to Vulcan serenity.'

' _Are_ you likely to, ah...'

'Feed me chocolate when it's that time of the year,' she deadpanned.

He considered some of his female relatives. 'I suppose some things don't change, even in two hundred and fifty years.'

She leaned her head back and giggled. 'That they don't.' She laid down on the table, arms behind her head and one booted foot drawn up to its edge. 'Worse for T'Pol's assessment of my mental stability, she doesn't _know_ if it's "that time of the year" for me, or what precautions I might've taken.'

He stared at her, and not just for her casual pose. 'You-- you're serious? Vulcan females are, um...'

'Please don't tell her I've betrayed that. It's very embarrassing for civilised Vulcans. Telling you merely reinforces that feral Vulcans are terrible, _terrible_ people.' She turned her head more towards him, nearly hiding her eyepiece against her arm.

'You don't seem terrible.' Again, he realised that sounded like flirting only after saying it.

'My sense of humour is terrible.' She sighed. 'I _did_ have to learn how to manage emotions. I was among people who thought they were important, but to the cohorts, emotions are irrelevant or fatal. I spent a lot of time watching other people. I found I liked pretending to be emotionless, so they could tease me about it.'

Malcolm found himself on his elbow, reclined a bit awkwardly along the table as well. 'Why _didn't_ you get sent to Vulcan?'

She looked at him -- clearly weighing, probably with logic, what she was going to say. 'In enough years, even Vulcans may have schisms of philosophy. A small colony which sought a different balance of emotion to logic -- was genetically unsustainable in the long term. Every genetic contribution would have counted. And perhaps those who decided to leave me there were concerned that I would have been quietly eliminated as a _defective_ Vulcan, had I been given over to the care of the civilised ones.'

'Would they have?' He kept himself from reaching out... a little too late. He let his hand rest on the table between them.

She rolled over onto her side, still with her eyepiece pillowed against one arm, while her other hand wound up beside his, not quite touching. Her glove's shining metal squares reflected the lights. 'I don't think so. I wouldn't be who I am now, though. And while I can hope someone else would've chased those fools through the time-rift yesterday... I'm more comfortable that I did it myself.'

Malcolm certainly wasn't going to object to a _friendly_ Vulcan lounging on a table with him, though he wished he'd set the lights to go only halfway to bright. 'Even if you wound up on a ship full of humans?' He reminded himself that humans didn't smell good to Vulcans, even if she did imply she'd gotten used to it. And flirting with aliens was probably a bad idea, so he should stop thinking about trying it.

'It is my devout hope to the...' T'En paused before he could find out what feral Vulcans swore by. 'Well. My devout hope that the _Enterprise_ 's engines will be quickly repaired, and you can continue on to your next encounters with destiny in a timely fashion, leaving the _Oath_ to figure out how to set the time-rift device to return us to our own time, and keeping a lid on people who might want to... meddle with things not so far back as this.'

"Human meddlers?"

'I have an extremely mixed crew. A few survivors from my colony. A number of "exchange crew" from the F-- from Starfleet, of various species with humans predominating. Members of the government I'm sworn to, all of whom have lost kinfolk to disaster. A couple of former cohort-members, who were subjugated as adults. This isn't even including the would-be saviors of a fallen empire who want to eliminate meddling humanity from the galactic stage, who are overflowing the brig to the extent that we'll have to keep most of them _drugged_ till we can get them back to our own time.' Now she looked tired, and very much a captain.

'Sounds like being here is a vacation. I should take you to the rec room to play pool,' he said, trying to be sympathetic and lighten her mood at the same time.

T'En rolled onto her back again, which pulled her hand further from his, to his concealed dismay. 'Someday, if all goes as it should, I hear that some Starfleet ships will even have _masseurs_.'

He snorted laughter. 'You're joking!'

'Upon my oath, I have heard such tales of Starfleet ships.'

'We certainly don't have anyone like that on _this_ ship,' he said, trying to imagine the _decadence_ of such a... a showpiece of a ship. Perhaps there would be starships entirely devoted to wining and dining ambassadors? While proper ships got on with the business of exploration and research?

'I am theatrically overcome by disappointment,' T'En deadpanned, putting a gloved hand to her forehead. 'Woe. Woe.'

'You are a terrible actor,' he said. Then he paused, and, for once in his life, decided he could be awkward and straightforward with a Vulcan. '...are you suggesting _I_ should be offering...?'

'For the honour of Starfleet?' she asked. She pushed herself up and turned to mirror his pose on the table, going from pokerfaced to serious. 'I must admit, I would have ulterior motives. I want to minimise the contact _Enterprise_ crew has with my crew, and with the prisoners. I want to keep the timeline whole. And if your captain doesn't trust my motives... I worry that he'll try to send someone over to the captured ship, or get one of my people tipsy, and an avalanche of changes will turn everything into paradox.'

Well, there was the metaphoric dash of cold water to the face, better than the real thing. 'You'd try to seduce someone, to get our trust.'

Her gaze darted from his face to the middle distance of his chest, and back again, with the accompanying avian twitches of her head. 'Yes. If I could. If it would work.'

'And I'm... convenient.' He pushed up from the table and slid off it, wanting to turn away so he didn't have to look at her, and not letting himself put his back to someone of uncertain temper and a sharp weapon.

'You want to protect your ship. It's your job to identify threats, isn't it?'

It was, even if Captain Archer often discounted exactly how much firepower would be useful if things went bad. 'So you want to... subvert me?'

'No. Convince you I'm on _Enterprise_ 's side as much as on my own. That we walk in the shadow of each other's wings.' From the corner of his eye, he could see her, sitting on the table's edge with her boots dangling and her hands clasped between her knees. 'And also, I think I like you.'

Malcolm took a breath and turned to face her. 'That's a very ruthless thing to say.' And unkind.

'Truth is a _lirpa_ , not a sword.'

'What does _that_ mean?'

She straightened. 'That if I want to hit you over the head with it, I'm going to slice my chest open at the same time.' Her hand moved from a slow, imaginary blackjacking, to instead draw a finger in a line from left rib to right collarbone.

For an intense moment, Malcolm had a great deal of _sympathy_ for T'Pol. Untangling whether someone was lying or not...

T'En added, 'Also, if I were any _good_ at cold-blooded seduction, I'd know what to say. Or not say. It's my first time.'

'You might start with explaining _why_ you picked me. Captain Archer... He won't be _less_ suspicious of you.'

'You'd become five times as suspicious if I'd tried to intrigue him, though. So. Why you?' She regarded him, then lifted her hands to count off points. 'Firstly, I'd assume you wouldn't be interested if you didn't believe I was sincere. Secondly, I'd assume your captain would have as much faith in you. Thirdly, I like your hair; it looks soft. Fourthly, I like your accent. No one in my cohort had that accent. Fifthly... Fifthly, for all I know, I _should_ be dipping someone in chocolate right now. And sixthly, if I hadn't found the idea somewhat intriguing, for reasons three and four, and possibly five, I'd be learning what "playing pool" entailed instead, or assuring you that you could just tuck me in your brig with a science text till the engines were working again. I could even bring my own science text.'

There wasn't really enough room to pace back and forth unless he did it in front of her. And though he felt restless, he didn't want to give in to that much distraction. Agitation. Confusion.

'Seventh, I am perhaps... lonely. Civilised Vulcans meditate, I gather, when they feel adrift. It's not a skill I've learned.'

Well, and that was a bloody unfair thing to say. He went back to lean against the table's edge, with a chair between them. He wanted to fold his arms, but didn't want to immobilise them in case he had to react quickly, so he gripped the table instead. 'Don't you have anyone on your ship you like?'

'Engineering is too busy right now for me to go recharge down there.'

He was about to say _'Recharge' is a funny way to put it_ when he remembered she had charging plates on her hands, under those gloves. So she probably intended it literally, not... recreationally. 'That's not what I meant.'

'Mm. Sorry. I thought it might be, in a way. The crew occasionally talk about being children and going to watch their parents work, and sometimes falling asleep there.' She was looking down at her hands on her knees, and he couldn't see her eye from there. Just the blank, dark eyepiece.

He wondered how much peripheral vision that thing gave her. Then he wondered about a person who found _comfort_ in Engineering.

When he didn't ask anything else, T'En said, 'I'm the captain of my ship. It would be bad for morale. The exchange crew from Starfleet would disapprove. Some of the other crew might try for... What's the term? Bedroom promotions?'

'And there aren't... other captains? Or civilians?' That's right, Malcolm, he told himself. Counsel the Vulcan on her relationships.

'If our colony hadn't been destroyed,' she said, with an unexpected promptness. 'There was someone there. He was one of the other heroes, who got shuttles out with people on them like I did. He's got his own ship -- but I hear rumours that at least half of his officers are trying to wind up in _his_ bedroom.' She snorted softly.

'Ah.' Malcolm said. Then, after a moment. 'Awkward.'

'Yes. I may have been raised in a cohort, but I have subsequently been socialised to expect a bit more privacy in certain activities.'

The deadpan, Vulcan delivery of that statement had him hiccoughing a chuckle, shaking his head. Then he sighed and wanted to rub his face, but didn't. 'So which did you mean, regarding... me? Serious, or tactical?'

'I'm a feral Vulcan.' She twitched her head to face him. 'The answer is both, in equal measure. First I think, "Would it work?" Then I think, "That one is interesting", and so I do not discard the first thought out of hand.'

'Ah,' he said again, nodding. 'So. Logical.'

She spread her hands. 'If you are not interested, of course, I can learn how to "play pool". It would probably be better to keep myself distracted before I become as much a threat to the timeline as some of my crew.'

'You?'

T'En turned to him, braced on one hand with the other draped over her lap. Her chin jerked up, and she was wintery pale. 'I found what they did to the captives from my colony. And I made those labs their pyre.'

He could believe stories of vicious, bloodthirsty Vulcans now. He'd seen T'Pol on the bridge in combat, and she had been ruthless enough. T'En... could be angry enough, to convince him. Malcolm pushed away from the table. Thought to offer his hand. Thought twice. Thought a third time that maybe the proof was in the proving. And finally thought _oh, the bloody hell with it_ and held out his hand.

T'En took it, and slid off the table to stand, fingers wrapped in his, looking up at him.

He said, 'My quarters don't have a window.'

'Keeps people from looking in,' she said.

'Would someone?' he asked.

She flicked her free hand in the direction of her ship, to the front of _Enterprise_ and slightly portside. 'There's plenty of nosy scientists with access to sensors over there.'

Malcolm reconsidered the wisdom of just turning down the lights and setting an emergency lock on the conference room door, and started drawing her towards that door, hands still linked. 'You're not going to use your transporters to kidnap me?'

'My transporter operators are resourceful,' she said, serene. 'They can find their own pornography when they're off-duty.'

Then the door opened while he was choking on a laugh, and he led her into the corridor.

She kept holding his hand.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: Ten has her own opinions about the Borg and any similarity to canon (or fanon) is purely coincidental.
> 
> 2: Any symbolism in weaponry is filtered through Ten's opinions. Therefore, again, any similarity to canon (or fanon) is purely coincidental.
> 
> 3: Anyone thinking that a security officer should know better than to run off with the pointy-eared piratical cutie... should consider which of them is the Captain-rank character. You _know_ Kirk would've had an attractive alien security officer smooching in a corner in half a scene flat. (And she does like his accent.)


	11. T'Pol

**T'Pol**

Most of the time, T'Pol had very little understanding of why she was still on the _Enterprise_. It was full of humans. Illogical, odiferous humans. Humans who questioned her loyalties, argued with her logic (in the middle of a combat situation, even), and read private communications without giving her a chance to explain why she'd received an un-asked-for transmission.

And yet she'd broken the marriage arrangements that her parents had made for her, with her betrothed's parents.

(It was similar to a permitted thing, after all. And this form of it did not require anyone to battle and die.)

It was probably that she was beginning to understand how to guide these humans -- had successfully done so a few times, even -- and _someone_ needed to make sure they didn't get themselves into trouble without knowing what they were doing. Odds of survival were better when they were at least aware of the dangers, even if they persisted in the illogical actions.

Better her, whom they would occasionally listen to (if not heed), than someone else who might not understand humanity's crude and awkward attempts to help non-humans.

So. T'Pol remained because the humans needed guidance, and she was the only logical candidate to give it. And she obeyed the captain because she had promised to do so.

Which was why she had wound up standing beside an injured member of her species, whose manner and accent were both familiar enough to reassure her that association with humanity had not wholly destroyed her species' sense of tradition -- and different enough to make her accept that the most likely hypothesis was that he had come from over two centuries into her future.

Into _a_ future, anyway.

His name, he told her, was Saamik. (It was a reasonably traditional one, well within the variations she would expect.) He was primarily a scientist, specializing in xenobotany. He had gone from the Science Academy, into Starfleet, and then been placed upon this ship as part of a diplomatic alliance between--

And there he paused and finally said only, "Governments."

T'Pol asked, "Ours?"

Saamik thought upon the matter for another fifteen seconds (approximately), and said, "It is complicated."

Because they were speaking their own language, and she was reasonably sure they were not being recorded, she was able to say, "This ship's commander wishes to know if your ship's commander can be trusted."

Saamik said, "Trusted to do what?"

"He is concerned," T'Pol said, "that we are being misled."

"It is my understanding," Saamik said, "that we are here to protect this ship from temporal interference."

"Your ship's commander has said she believes temporal interference could... unmake her."

And he said, without hesitation, "Yes. She would say that. It is sufficiently accurate. She is a confluence of unlikely events, and she would not wish to alter the probabilities of any of them."

"She claims she was raised by wild animals, figuratively. That she has had no training. That to touch her mind might trigger conditioning that could cause her to threaten the ship's safety."

He was silent for a time longer, and she wondered if telepathic communions between non-mates were even more disapproved of, in his time. But he gave no sign of that, not even to question why she'd been told such a thing, and only said, "That would make sense, yes. I would not risk it. What assurances do you seek?"

It gave her pause, as the first answer was, _Something, anything, that will convince Captain Archer._ And the second answer was that she disliked being drawn into his paranoia. Assume the worst, and it became nearly impossible, within the confines of the problem, to disprove manipulation. So it took her longer than she liked to say, "That we are not being manipulated into anything that changes your past. And that the future you are from... is worth leaving unchanged."

He took a long time to think that one over, his eyes closed. T'Pol waited.

Finally Saamik opened his eyes again and said, "If we changed anything this far back, it would not benefit our present. It would endanger the beneficial effects of Starfleet and humanity upon the galaxy, with no certain replacement of an equally useful nature. Move forward a hundred years, or two hundred, and the equations may change."

Softly, she said, "Humanity will have a beneficial effect?"

"Disruptive. Illogical. But ultimately beneficial." He closed his eyes. "I tire."

"Thank you for speaking with me," she said, and turned away.

Behind her, Saamik murmured something. She hesitated, but he did not repeat himself, and she was left to suspect the words had been: _Live long, T'Pol, and prosper._

He did not seem to be a Vulcan who had neglected the study of history. She did not know if that was meant as formality, or prediction.

Thus, she was discomfited enough to want to organize her thoughts and transcribe the conversation appropriately so Captain Archer could read it -- and she went towards her room, on the same deck.

Near the conference rooms -- which were adjacent to her own quarters -- one of Lt. Reed's men was... loitering, at the intersection of two corridors. She paused beside him and looked at him, waiting to be enlightened.

The man muttered, "Reed's in the main conference room with the..."

"Captain T'En," T'Pol said, taking her irritation about that not-quite-right name and placing it in the same mental compartment where she kept her opinion of human odors.

"Right."

"I see." There was nothing she could accomplish by talking to her disturbing "cousin" while humans were around, and Lt. Reed would be unlikely to give them privacy, so T'Pol moved past.

There was another crewman in the niche between the door to her quarters, and the one to the small conference room. He grunted and tucked himself into the conference room to get out of her way so she could enter her own door.

As she was stepping into the niche, she heard the murmur of voices -- Lt. Reed's, and T'En's. The words were indistinct. T'Pol glanced over and saw them exiting the room, and then she moved into the niche, through her door, and into the privacy of her quarters.

They had been holding hands.

The only obvious explanation was... extremely inconvenient.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: Ten is a very special snowflake. Of course, every Star Trek Online character has the option to be a snowflake, a special snowflake, or a _very_ special snowflake, so hey. It's kind of par for the genre. (She is not a timelord, shinigami, dragon, or drow, all of whom she has danced among during Risa summer vacation.)
> 
> 2: Possible spoiler: due to my limited research (it's hard to do research for a fic while trying to avoid spoilers! *facepalm*), it is my understanding that had _Enterprise_ gone another season longer than it did, they were going to make T'Pol a half-Romulan. Since Romulans were supposed to be these mysterious, never-seen people in Kirk's era, throwing All The Cool Stuff back into Archer's era bugs me. Thus, my headcanon is that T'Pol is purebred Vulcan and I shall write her as such.
> 
> This doesn't mean that hanging around humans doesn't have a bad effect on the Vulcan psyche, mind.
> 
> 3: http://www.cygnus-x1.net/links/lcars/enterprise-nx-01-deckplans.php is an awesome reference, and allowed me to write this scene's ending very smoothly.


	12. Malcolm, in his quarters, with a cute girl

**Malcolm**

Walking past the security-minded crewman he himself had assigned to 'just happen' to be passing in the corridor... Malcolm hoped he wasn't flushing. Once they were _probably_ out of easy earshot, he muttered, 'I'd better go off-duty soon...'

Equally low, T'En murmured back, 'Surely entertaining diplomats is a perfectly good use of a Starfleet officer's time?'

He swallowed a snicker, and tried not to swing their linked hands. He felt like he was playing hooky, sneaking out of school with a cute girl who'd not only gone along with the idea, but instigated it. And if they were apprehended, she seemed the sort who'd feel the only threat to her reputation was the _getting caught_ part.

He was expecting to get caught, any moment. Something would happen, someone would turn up, some emergency on her ship would call her away, giant space squid would attack the _Enterprise_...

By the time they got into his quarters, he was so wound up that he barely recalled he _should_ say something, let alone _what_ to say when welcoming a pretty alien into his room. Small room, though larger than some on the ship. Room with a desk, one overstuffed chair, and a bed built into a shelving unit. Room with a bed. He was supposed to say something, he was sure, but...

The alien in question saved him. 'May I check in with my crew?' she asked, holding up her electronics-banded left wrist. 'And were you going to tell your people you're "off-duty"?'

'Good-- good idea, yes.' He nodded, reluctantly released her hand, and went to his computer console. As he tapped in various messages -- and password-locked the controls to the systems he had access to -- he could hear her murmuring behind him. _Have there been any emergencies? As I thought, I'm staying over for a while longer. Diplomatic liaison to Starfleet, after all. Call me if you have to, but try not to have to._

He could see her, indistinctly, reflected in the screen of his computer terminal. Her gloves flashed as she did something at her belt. When he turned round, she had it unbuckled, and was bent to set the scabbarded sword flush against the drawers that went underneath his bed.

T'En might not have the height to match the _Enterprise_ 's resident Vulcan woman, nor an equivalent bosom, but those were very tight leggings, and what they contained was well-shaped.

Malcolm swallowed.

She straightened and turned to face him. Mild, curious, with a few of those birdlike glances... Mostly glancing at him, looking him up and down and returning to his face.

He was supposed to do something, he was sure, but if he did... he just _knew_ disaster would strike. It was Murphy's Law, as applied to Malcolm Reed. The universe was a hostile place, and that especially applied to having an attractive woman in his quarters.

She tilted her head, and smiled just a little. 'If you change your mind, you can simply give me a pitcher of sugar-water and put me in the brig for safekeeping.'

'I don't want to put you in the brig,' he said.

She walked over to him, and stood very close. Reflexively, he moved to take her hands, and was then confused about which way to continue. Security-reflexes wanted to keep her hands away from his pistol. Other reflexes were calling security a killjoy.

'Can-- can I take off your gloves?' he asked.

'Yes.' She watched as he drew up her hands; he tucked her right one against his chest and worked on her left glove first. She said, 'I can put them back on if the charging plates bother you.'

He hadn't dimmed the overhead lights yet. They gleamed on the black metal that followed the long bones between wrist and knuckle. He ran a thumb along the boundary of one and she drew in a breath. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'Do they hurt?'

'No. Not unless you tried to pull the skin away from them.'

He nodded, an awkward movement that mirrored her own swift head-twitches, and thumb-stroked her hand again. There was a slight ridge; the smooth metal was raised above the level of flesh and skin. Even reflecting the lights, it seemed space-dark against her pallor.

The glove dropped to the floor; he had a belated moment of panic that this would somehow be an unforgivable insult, but T'En didn't seem to notice. That made him brave enough to set that hand against his chest and go after the other glove. It soon joined the first.

'Eighthly,' she said, and it came out like a whisper, 'you're not flinching at my implants.'

He gathered her hands together under one of his and reached out to the eyepiece, pausing just before touching. 'Is this dangerous? T'Pol...'

'You're human. I don't think you could trigger it. It's fine.'

Vulcan secrets. But the important part was that he could trace the edges where metal laid over skin, standing close enough to hear her breathing catch. Feel her breath go faster against his other hand as her head tipped back -- smoothly, this time, and not in the tiny jerks of prior movements.

The important part was that he could stroke his fingers into her sleek hair, along the curve and point of her ear, and down her neck.

The important part was that he could leave her hands against his chest, and touch her exposed cheek, watch her close her eye, and then bend to kiss her, one arm around her shoulders and the other hand in her hair, thumb against her ear-tip.

And the truly important part was that, when he drew back, she said, 'Oh, that's nice. I want to practice that more.'

 _Practice?_ he didn't say, because it was rather more urgent to oblige her.

After some very inspired practice, with her own fingers running through his hair as well, he needed to breathe a bit more deeply than kissing permitted. She toyed with the zipper of his jumpsuit. 'If this goes on the floor,' she murmured, 'can you put the microphone on the bottom of the pile?'

'Ah. Yes.' He'd nearly forgotten about the bloody thing. 'You noticed it just now?'

T'En smiled up at him and tapped her eyepiece, next to the lens. 'It's more a medical tricorder than a general purpose one, but I can pick out a few things.'

'Feral Vulcans,' he complained, 'are terrible, sneaky people.' He kissed her again, while she giggled and kissed him back.

Shortly after, she showed him where the hidden fasteners were on her jacket, and the microphone went on the bottom of the pile.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm inferring from the pilot episode that perhaps Malcolm does not necessarily have the best luck with relationships. I could be wrong. Maybe he's just flustered about having a cute _alien_ girl in his room. But, if need be... *jazzhands* ALTERNATE TIMELINE! *jazzhands*


	13. Archer, in his Ready Room, with a headache

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mild cussing.

**Archer**

Archer had a headache. It wasn't from talking to the _Oath_ 's crew -- who were remarkably affable for being so close-mouthed, or maybe remarkably close-mouthed for being so affable -- even though he hadn't learned nearly enough for his tastes.

(They respected their captain. They were all exchange crew from Starfleet. One of them volunteered, with cheery cynicism, that this actually meant they were all _spies_ for Starfleet -- and another pointed out that if everyone knew they were spies, they weren't really spies, now were they? They all agreed that there was something dangerous about Vulcan face-touching, at least as regarding T'En, though one of them said it was a case of "it's kind of a rumor, but better safe than sorry." The general consensus was that the _Oath_ wouldn't want to mess with Archer's _Enterprise_ , though they had some ideas that started with "The battle of--" and ended someone else pretending to cough. Loudly.)

No, his headache was threefold.

Firstly, tacked onto the end of the report on her discussion with her fellow Vulcan from the future, T'Pol had informed Archer that his chief tactical officer was probably going to be incommunicado for a few hours. Or longer. And it would be wiser to just... leave Reed alone and wait for him to surface. (Not in those exact words, but Archer could translate.)

Secondly, one of Reed's people, assigned to covert security, had reported that Malcolm and T'En had vanished into Malcolm's quarters, and he -- the crewman, Smith -- had been sent a message that Reed was off-duty for a few hours, but to "keep an eye on things." This concerned Smith. Also, Reed's console'd had additional security layered into it.

Thirdly, Hoshi absolutely refused to play back the last fifteen minutes of the recording -- more like last half-hour, now -- and was balking at playing back nearly everything since Archer'd left Malcolm alone with the Vulcan captain.

Because it was "personal."

At least she was still recording it, even if she was encrypting it for Reed's access only.

He couldn't yell at Hoshi, because that would be picking on someone he'd wheedled onto his ship in the first place -- and he'd at least gotten her to agree to divert any _isolated phrases_ in other languages.

He couldn't yell at Smith, because Smith was just doing his job, and reporting his concerns.

He sure couldn't yell at Porthos, who'd needed to go use the newspapers anyway, and Archer'd had to let one of the crew take him down for that.

On the other hand...

"T'Pol, what the _hell_ is going on? I told Malcolm to show her around the ship, not show her his _quarters_! How does that even _work_?"

T'Pol stood at something rather like attention, hands behind her back and staring at the wall rather than at where Archer was sitting. "I am given to understand the anatomy is reasonably similar, Captain," she said.

"Since when have Vulcans had a-- a _sex drive_?" He threw up his hands in exasperated disbelief.

She didn't say anything, but only let Archer realize that Vulcans had to have _something_ , since there were presumably little Vulcans being raised back on their homeworld.

He'd kind of assumed they just budded. Or some pointy-eared stork brought them.

"All right, all right," he said, trying to calm down before T'Pol started making snide, oblique remarks about human irrationality. "So the _mechanics_ aren't impossible. Everyone is telling me that Malcolm's gone off to bed with Captain T'en. Hoshi's telling me. Smith's telling me. And you're telling me?"

She swallowed, and continued staring fixedly at the wall. Her hesitation was obvious, even to Archer, but she finally said, flatly, "Yes, Captain."

"All right," he repeated, and wondered why the hell Malcolm'd gone along with being propositioned... or if he'd done the propositioning? Then why the hell would T'En go along with _that_? He asked, "So why would a Vulcan go to bed with a human?"

T'Pol continued trying to pretend the rest of the world did not exist, or whatever it was that she was doing. Again, after a long enough pause that he nearly demanded an answer, she said, "I don't know why she would have gone with a human, Captain."

"Because Vulcans don't... don't play _mata hari_ , right?"

"I don't understand the reference, Captain."

"Don't seduce people to get what they want. Right?"

He saw her lips part, then her jaw tightened on whatever she was going to say. When she spoke, it was a less flat, less certain tone. "I would not have thought so, Captain." Her voice regained surety. "Saamik does not think she would do anything that would endanger the _Enterprise_."

That matched with what Archer'd found from the others. God help him, he believed that handful of humans. They'd looked at him like he was five movie stars and a president rolled into one, and it'd taken him a while to get them to loosen up at all. And none of those shiny-eyed lot had given any hint that they were afraid of their captain, or didn't trust her.

"All right." He was saying that a lot. Trying to convince himself, probably. They're from the future. They're here to help. Lie back and enjoy it. ...That was an image he didn't want. He asked, "Is there any risk to _Malcolm_?"

T'Pol's silence was entirely _not_ reassuring. Slowly, she said, "Not... physically. I believe."

It was awfully fast for Malcolm to have his heart broken by a fling who'd have to go back to the future, but Archer knew men who'd gone head-over-heels about as quickly. It took a moment for him to wonder if that was what T'Pol meant, considering her opinion of human emotions.

"What _non-physical_ risks are there?" he asked, and didn't say _all right_ this time.

T'Pol swallowed. Took a breath. Looked, somehow, as if speaking would make live slugs fall from her mouth. She stated, "There is a risk that she will want to keep him. Captain."

The headache hadn't been fading. It'd been pretending that it _might_ fade, but now it came thundering back to land in his temple, above his left eye. "Just... just explain that," he said, rubbing his forehead.

Despite her impassivity, she looked like she would rather have _eaten_ live slugs. "Most Vulcans mate for life, Captain."

This was all a dream. A nightmare. Could a man have a migraine in a nightmare? He wanted to drop his head into his arms. "Go on."

The look T'Pol shot him would probably have killed if Vulcans came equipped with eye-lasers. "If Captain T'En is under the mistaken apprehension that the _Enterprise_ will do something foolhardy unless she... plays _mata hari_ , then nothing should come of the... encounter."

Archer would let Dr. Phlox worry about cross-species viruses or other forms of cooties. "That particularly likely?"

"Her education is lacking. She has admitted it herself. She might believe that humans of this era would respond well to such tactics. She might believe humans of this era would expect it."

Maybe he was imagining things, but it sounded like T'Pol was trying to convince herself of that one. Archer rubbed his forehead more. "All right." Dammit, he was saying that again. "Put your fine Vulcan mind to work figuring the odds of whether this is going to turn out to be a fling or a kidnapping."

"Yes. Captain." She sounded offended, in that _no, no, of course I have no emotions so I cannot possibly be feeling offended_ Vulcan way. He didn't particularly care.

His desk comm beeped. He flicked the switch and said, "Go ahead."

It was Hoshi, who sounded miffed and prim. "You wanted me to split out any foreign languages, Captain."

"Yes?"

"She also knows at least a few simple Klingon words. They weren't threatening." She cut the connection before he could ask which ones.

T'Pol looked at him. "The odds, Captain, are not comforting."

Archer would never have thought that Malcolm Reed was the kind of man who could make a Vulcan swear, let alone swear in Klingon. Or... whatever other words someone might yell under certain circumstances.

Maybe it was a good thing Hoshi hadn't given any further details. You didn't want your chief tactical officer plotting to murder you in your sleep for invading his privacy.

Still, he owed it to Malcolm to ask one last question. "If we go in there with a bucket of cold water, would that help?"

T'Pol said, "I can think of three broad scenarios, of which two have acceptable outcomes. Interrupting at this stage would make no difference, ultimately, in the first or third outcomes, but might tip an acceptable one into unacceptable."

The headache wasn't letting him untangle that. "Small words, T'Pol. Small words."

She took a breath, let it out, and said, "There are approximately two chances in three that this is ultimately just a... fling. Interrupting them might change that to two chances in three of a kidnapping instead."

Roll the dice and take the chance. Lie back and enjoy it. Archer had no words, and just shook his head and waved at T'Pol to go away.

Then he called down to Sickbay to ask someone to bring him up a painkiller.

* * *


	14. Malcolm, learning interspecies relations lessons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arguably not entirely safe for work, though frankly, no worse than the "decontamination scene" in the _Enterprise_ pilot episode(s).
> 
> ...that scene was stupid. They didn't rub goop into their hair!

* * *

* * *

**Malcolm**

For once, the universe had not conspired to thwart Malcolm from a chance of a lifetime. It had been educational. He had learned several things.

He had learned her shoulder-sash attached to the metal shoulder decoration with a small magnetic strip, because it would be embarrassing to be yanked off-balance if a door closed on it.

He had learned that 'green means go' under certain circumstances involving oxygenated Vulcan blood vessels and bare chests (which moved nicely when she giggled).

He'd learned that she had charging plates all up her spine, fanning out along her lower ribs, but she would've had to use special clothing if she didn't want to recharge naked.

He was fairly sure that he'd learned the words for _yes_ and _don't stop_ in at least two different languages. (He was equally sure he was never ever going to use those terms in front of T'Pol. Ever. Under any circumstances. Or Hoshi, for that matter.)

He'd learned why she was so pale: part of the modifications done when she was a child.

He'd learned that the ability to tie quick-release knots was rather handy, when combined with an available sash, for keeping someone's stronger-than-human hands behind her head while he explored the reactions he could elicit.

At least, until she'd yanked the release-end of the knot in her teeth -- which meant he'd learned the limits to her patience.

He'd learned that her physical and brain-development ages were higher than her actual age, but at least she was over eighteen by now. Thank God.

He'd learned she was heavier than she looked, because of metal in her bones.

He'd learned he was, so far as she knew, her first lover -- and that she had no complaints. (Which was very kind of her, because he wished for more stamina.)

The universe would undoubtedly conspire to do something terrible to him later -- if only force him to endure merciless teasing for years to come -- but for the moment, Malcolm Reed was content.

* * *


	15. Archer, on the bridge

**Archer**

Paperwork and reports waited for no man -- and especially not for Archer's chief tactical officer to "surface" from the impromptu "shore leave." Archer ground through routine administrative duties, then sat on the bridge and stared at the two alien ships from the future while everyone worked at their stations.

Hoshi still flatly refused to give him any recent data -- though she'd finally agreed to copy out a transcription of the conversation up to the point where she'd stopped listening in. (Archer had complained at her for not keeping better tabs on Malcolm, but she'd said Malcolm asked her to _translate_ , not monitor, and she'd taken him at his word.)

Travis Mayweather sat the helm. From a few of his comments, he was alternating between wishing he could get his hands on one of those fast-looking ships -- excessively fast, in the case of the _Oath_ and whatever that space-wrinkling drive had been -- and plotting various trajectories to get them out of the way if the two ships started combat again.

T'Pol was monitoring everything the _Enterprise_ 's sensors could pick up, especially including the _Oath_ and its prize. Comm traffic between the two, and within the _Oath_ , was her current focus, and she was even more abrupt and terse than usual if anyone tried to interrupt her.

And, most recently, Tucker'd come out of Engineering to glower darkly at the alien ships and make his reports.

"Just running some final tests, Captain, and we should be ready to move out in a couple hours. Five at the outside."

"Good to know, Trip," Archer said. He leaned around to say, "T'Pol, think that'll be enough time?"

He was glad Vulcans didn't have mystic powers of exploding people's heads. She said, "It. Should. Be."

Tucker gave him an _is there something I should know?_ look. Archer shook his head and made a little _nah, nothing_ gesture. Gossip'd get around anyway, once engineering and security people got off-duty and started talking, but no need to include the rest of the bridge crew in T'Pol's little list of Humans To Space At Earliest Opportunity.

"Mmph," Tucker said, looking around with an _I don't know what's going on, and I'm going to pretend I don't know **something's** going on_ expression. He shrugged and settled himself. "Guess I'll go back and keep an eye on things." He paused. "How'd lunch go?"

"Fine," Archer said. "It went fine. Really great." It was probably his imagination that T'Pol was trying to set him on fire with her brain, but his shoulder blades itched.

"Oh," Tucker said. "Good." He shrugged again and headed for the lift.

"Captain," T'Pol said, "I've just picked up several transporter signatures from the _Oath_. Either people or items of similar mass." Archer was going to say that they'd been spotting those off and on ever since the _Oath_ won its battle, but the Vulcan went on, "And there is now a communications signal being transmitted from the _Oath_ , in the direction of the _Enterprise_."

"Are they hailing us?" Archer asked hopefully.

"Negative," Hoshi said. "It's encrypted. I don't know if I can decrypt it in less than a few days, if that."

Two hundred and fifty years of advances in computer encryption were a pain in the neck. Archer said, "Tell me if we get a signal going back _to_ them. If we do, see if it's coming out of Sickbay or... somewhere else."

"Aye, sir," she said.

Archer turned back to the main screen and stared at it. The two ships failed to provide any answers.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe that encryption technology will continue to advance, especially since there've been a number of military actions between _Enterprise_ and STO era.


	16. Malcolm, still in his quarters, still with a cute girl

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps just the teeniest bit not safe for work, depending on how much ear-fondling your workplace will allow.

**Malcolm**

Malcolm had, quite by accident, found a way to entirely incapacitate T'En. It involved a particular spot on her right ear, and a specific movement with his thumb. The effects were an entertaining combination of appreciative whimpers, limpness, wiggling against him, and cat-like kneading of his left buttock.

If he hadn't been fairly exhausted already...

Something beeped insistently from the pile of clothing on the floor. T'En lifted her head, eye open, and said something in what he was pretty sure was Klingon. He was also pretty sure it was vilely rude, though that language could make anything sound angry.

He let go her ear as she turned and rolled off the bed. She made an accurate grab and pulled her wristpiece out. 'Ten here,' she said, sitting up on her knees. 'Who's bleeding?'

'Captain! It's Aisa! Commander Misha said to call you, but she's busy.'

'How _many_ people are bleeding?' T'En asked.

The woman on the other end took a deep breath. 'Someone knocked out Veril and the other engineers. They were being beamed back aboard when Commander Misha told me to get you. I'm not sure what else is going on -- something about someone beaming over, one of ours, but then the Rahm--'

'The prisoners?' T'En interrupted sharply.

'Right, yes, those R-- those prisoners. There's been an attempted break-out. F'rul and Ell and Tovan are dealing with it, while Misha and Nehor are beaming over to the Tal--' T'En made a hissing noise, and the person on the comm amended, '-- the other ship's engineering, but Nehor might have to come back here because of the prisoners getting out, and Commander Misha _said_ to call you!'

'How many of our people are still on the other ship?'

'Just a couple. They're either going to be beamed out or they're barricaded in and staying.'

'Misha and Nehor are going to try to take back the ship on their own?'

'I think Commander Misha wants help, Captain...'

Through her teeth, T'En said, 'Give me five minutes to. _get. **dressed**._ ' Then she looked over her right shoulder. Her lens was blank and assessing.

Malcolm rolled out of bed as well, and grabbed his underwear from the pile. 'I'm coming with you.'

'I can't endanger you.' She stood, bringing her leggings with her.

'If someone re-takes that ship, we're all in danger here.' He pulled his undershirt over his head. 'I'm not Archer. I'm not Tucker. I'm not even the one flying the bloody ship. But I'm a better shot than any of them. And I'm going with you.'

She shrugged on her outer jacket, holding his gaze with her own. Then she said, 'Feral Vulcans are bad at logic.' She snapped the wrist-piece around her arm. 'Aisa. Have someone beam over a communicator and an earbud programmed with our universal translator, a shield if you can get one, and my rifle if you can get it. If things go horrible, priority is to rescue Malcolm Reed, _Enterprise_ crew. Not me.'

'Un-understood, Captain.'

T'En sat on the bed to zip her boots back on. 'Don't charge into things,' she said. 'I have shielding built into me, like all cohorts do. I can take more hits than you can. It'll help if they can get a shield for you but you've never practiced with one, so you won't know how much it can block or when it's overloaded. So cover my back, and let me go first. Agreed?'

Malcolm settled his pistol at his hip and wished he'd brought the rifle as well. Now it was his turn to hold her gaze, as he said, 'Understood. Captain.'

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When an ex-Borg is getting dressed in a hurry, undergarments are irrelevant.


	17. Archer, still on the bridge

**Archer**

"Transporter beam detected, Captain," T'Pol said. "They've beamed something over, but it's very low-mass."

Archer was out of his chair and over by the communications station. "Hoshi, page him a little louder now, please." He wished she hadn't set the recording up so she _couldn't_ access it -- except things the translator recognized as Not English, of course. He would've liked to have eavesdropped, not just been informed that T'En could curse fluently in Klingon.

"Sending him a priority message," Hoshi said.

This time, Malcolm finally answered. "Little busy here," he said. "Should be back soon."

And before Archer could demand any further explanations, there was the sound of a transporter.

"They've been transported off the ship," T'Pol said, needlessly. She followed that with more useful information: "I believe they were beamed onto the captured ship, not the _Oath_."

He stepped away from the comm station and moved to stand under the science one, looking up at her. "Not a kidnapping?"

"I can't rule it out of the near future, Captain, but it seems unlikely. It would appear that this was instigated by the contact from her ship, and if she were planning to... keep him... I do not think she would be capable of subterfuge."

Archer turned to look at the viewscreen again, and noticed that Travis was minding his own business entirely too thoroughly. His ears might've been trying to grow Vulcan points, the better to overhear.

Turning back, elbow against the station's wall, Archer dropped his voice. "Could this count as an 'interruption' that might make option three more likely?"

T'Pol was silent and still. Then, quietly, she said, "I don't know, Captain."

It wasn't what he wanted to hear. He made a fist and tapped it against the side of the science station a few times -- then thumped it harder, once. "Mayweather. T'Pol. Get a shuttle. You're going to sidle over there and... give Malcolm some backup."

* * *


	18. Malcolm, on an alien ship

**Malcolm**

The first thing Malcolm saw of the alien ship was the... giant... turning... jagged hoops. Around a sphere. In the centre of what looked just barely enough like _Enterprise_ 's Engineering that he decided they were in the alien ship's engineering.

T'En immediately readied her rifle -- an ungainly, black thing with glowing green bits -- and twitched her head around to look at nearly everything. Deadly hummingbird. Malcolm drew his pistol and suppressed his rifle-envy. T'En called, 'Misha? Report.'

From beyond one of the support struts, a woman called back, 'Here, Captain. I think this room is clear.'

T'En strode towards the voice, though with a significant enough glance at Malcolm that he hung back a few paces. When she'd rounded the strut, she said, 'Misha, Nehor. And Sedil? Good. I brought someone with me.'

That was Malcolm's cue, and he moved into view himself, pistol aimed enough away not to shoot anyone by accident.

There were three women there. One was a darker-skinned human with a red tattoo along her hairline on one side, wearing charcoal black paneled with reddish brown. One was Vulcan -- or 'feral Vulcan', perhaps -- in a long, reddish coat, whose equally dark skin had a greenish cast, and whose expression seemed one of perpetual concern. The third... was an Andorian, in a gold-and-black jumpsuit akin to the red-and-black one V'Lor had worn, with her high-set antenna swinging in agitation.

T'En had the rifle pointed down. 'Lieutenant Reed is with me,' she said, jerking her head at him. To him, she said, 'These are Misha and Nehor. Sedil is one of the engineers who's been patching up the battle-damage.' She twitched her chin to indicate each as she gave their names.

Misha was the human. Nehor was the other Vulcan. Sedil was the Andorian. Malcolm nodded to them. 'Charmed.'

T'En went on. 'Aisa wasn't very clear. What's going on?'

Misha said, 'Someone beamed over here while the transporters were _supposed_ to be locked down, because of the prisoners trying to escape -- that should be under control soon. Whoever beamed over was using Quartermaster Lukar's codes. He's not answering his comm. I told Aisa to try to find Lukar after she got hold of you, but she hasn't said she's succeeded.'

Nehor added something that started in an unfamiliar language, but the earbud quickly took over: 'Sedil was working down beneath the singularity when someone came through and stunned everyone else. She waited for them to leave, then called for help.'

Malcolm wondered if Vulcans had more than one language, and if so, did Hoshi know about it -- or was this something that would develop in the next two centuries?

T'En said, 'We need to keep the singularity stable, and this ship shut down -- especially if any of the prisoners manage to get here after all.' Her head was moving nearly constantly now, as she glanced round.

Built in scanner, he remembered. Scout programming. Where T'Pol would've had her instrument in hand, T'En was getting scan data right in front of her.

Sedil said -- in yet another language, with the translation taking over a half-second later -- 'I can keep the ship systems locked down, Captain.'

She nodded to the Andorian. 'Good. Try not to implode this ship unless you have to.' She looked between Misha and Nehor. 'You two stay and guard engineering and Sedil. Misha, if you can swap with Tovan, that might be good. He knows this kind of ship better than you will.'

The human woman nodded. 'Home-field advantage. Got it.'

'And it keeps him from getting hit by friendly fire,' T'En said, which got chuckles or brief smiles from everyone, even Nehor. T'En continued, 'I'll be taking Lieutenant Reed with me. He's a special case. We don't want _Enterprise_ crew at risk over here unless there's no other choice.'

'Understood, Captain,' Misha said, with Nehor nodding firmly beside her.

T'En darted her grey glance to him. 'Let's go clear this ship, Malcolm.'

He straightened a little and smiled back at her. 'Yes, Captain.'

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: The Romulan Engineering ship interior is kind of awesome. Just sayin'.
> 
> 2: Nehor and Misha are Bridge Officers; their names were assigned randomly.
> 
> Sedil is an Andorian duty officer, Engineering, who is not on the STO wiki. I am using the four-sexes theory of Andorians (http://memory-beta.wikia.com/wiki/Andorian_genders), but unless you're propositioning her, you don't get to know which "female" type she is.
> 
> Aisa is the purple-quality Risian Entertainer duty officer. Lukar is a blue-quality Vulcan duty officer.
> 
> 3: Tovan Khev is from STO. According to Tuftears, the name is actually the Romulan equivalent to "John Smith," and is thus commonly used by anyone who doesn't feel like giving his name.
> 
> (Meanwhile, still according to Tufty, "K'Gan" is in fact Klingon for "Political Officer." And it's Elisa Flores who's the transporter accident. Very embarrassing. A whole class of Floreses.)
> 
> 4: Just about all of #3 is a STO in-joke.


	19. T'Pol, in a shuttlecraft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Possibly somewhat NSFW for frank language when musing over Certain Matters Of Biology.

**T'Pol**

"So," Mayweather asked T'Pol as they attempted to "fly casually" toward the pair of ships. "What's going on?"

T'Pol weighed what to tell him. _You don't need to know_ was fairly true, but humans rarely responded well to it. She'd already discussed quite enough of the biological situation with Captain Archer, and it was very clear to her that revealing everything, even aside from the disapproval of her peers, would make it more difficult to do her job on the _Enterprise_.

Had the disturbing little woman actually believed she'd have to offer sexual behavior to keep the _Enterprise_ from meddling in things that might cause the timeline to change? Had Malcolm implied as much, or said something that could have been misinterpreted?

Was T'En so ill-socialized that it had been a... whim? Stress-relief as humans might seek?

Something that she'd felt compelled to do, because history had said it had been done?

Logic could only make suggestions in the absence of full data, and while T'Pol would not let herself _hope_ like a human, she very much would prefer to find that it had been some misunderstanding.

The alternative was that T'En had come into _pon farr_. And from there, it branched again, into numerous displeasing possibilities: it had been sudden and strong enough that she'd chosen the nearest convenient human; it had been _subtle_ enough that an untrained, young female had taken it as whim; it had been brought on early by the excitement of the ship combat, and separated from her mate or betrothed, she had taken steps that would not inconvenience _her_ crew; it had been brought on early, and she strove to counter it quickly, at the first signs.

In those cases... had it been long enough for the blood fever to have burnt itself out?

If so, why would Reed have gone _with_ her? Why would she have _let_ him? She was untrained -- was she untrained enough to bond unconsciously? To bond in spite of more sensible intent? Could such a joining create a one-way bond in the _human_?

And Mayweather was waiting for her answer. T'Pol said, "Captain Archer assigned Lieutenant Reed to act as Captain T'En's security while she was on board the _Enterprise_ , as her own was called away. He is concerned that Reed may have... become overly enthusiastic." Which was, as humans would say, certainly _one_ word for it.

"I suppose the captain doesn't let him shoot things enough," Mayweather said cheerfully.

"In Reed's opinion," she said, while Mayweather tried to slip between the captured ship and the _Oath_.

There was an incoming call from _Enterprise_. She answered it. "T'Pol here."

It was Captain Archer. "Watch out. They finally noticed."

"Who made the contact, Captain?" she said.

"Chief Morale Officer again. Sounded frazzled. Told her we just wanted to make sure Reed was okay. You should be fine to scan for him."

The _Oath_ had noticed the shuttle. The _Oath_ had been given a plausible, and true, reason for it to be there. "Scanning now, Captain," she said. "Picking up lifesigns... Transporter signature... Internal forcefields have gone up at points within the ship, Captain. I'm not sure where Reed might be."

* * *


	20. Malcolm, on an alien ship

**Malcolm**

A forcefield had cut across the hallway, shortly after T'En and Malcolm had passed it. Now T'En regarded it with a blank disapproval. She tapped her rifle's tip on it, and the wall of energy flared and made subsonic noises that resonated in Malcolm's molars.

'Not your people?' he guessed.

'Not without warning me. This will make it hard to get you out of here if something goes more wrong.'

'So what could activate these shields?'

'In theory, Engineering should have switched everything down to there. Either someone overrode their overrides, or overrode _them_.' She turned and paced down the corridor, small, dark-clad, and radiating a deadly calm. Perhaps it was the rifle; the thing was almost half as tall as she was. He followed, closer than before in case more of those internal forcefields popped up.

T'en paused at a door. Reached out and tapped at a panel beside it, with the dim lights gleaming on her hand's black metal implants. When it didn't open, she stepped back, raised the rifle, adjusted its settings, and shot the door itself three times. Then she kicked in the smoldering remains, waited a moment for any reaction, readjusted the rifle's settings (presumably back to 'stun') and ducked inside.

Malcolm followed her, with a deep appreciation for her style, her rifle, and her legs.

The room beyond was small, no larger than his quarters. It looked a bit like one of the _Enterprise_ 's science-oriented rooms, with three consoles at the other walls, and the now-demolished door in the fourth.

T'En let the tip of her rifle rest on the floor and tapped on a console, which only had unfamiliar markings. After a moment, a map appeared -- floating holographically above the display panel. 'This is the ship we're on.' She pointed to a small, yellow light within the ship's thick 'throat' and said, 'This is where we are. The forcefields are marked in green. I can't get a reading on anyone else.'

Malcolm frowned at the image. 'Engineering is sealed off?'

'Yes. Engineering. Life support. The weapon-pod areas. It's not fully to dividing off everything that it could, in case of hull-breaches, but it's close. And I don't have the codes to bring the shields down or even have them flicker to let us through.' She was dividing her attention between the image and the door.

He let her take care of watching the door, and traced green lines with a finger. 'That's the bridge?'

She glanced over. 'Yes.'

'Looks like we could get to it. Here, see?'

T'En spared a closer look for the map. 'There should be a separate shield division for the bridge itself, abutting this one directly.'

He leaned a little closer. Yes, that looked like a doubled shield-line indicator. 'Any way to blow a hole in it?'

She bit her lip. 'Maybe... Or perhaps...'

Malcolm waited.

'Blowing holes in the conduits that are providing energy to the shields will be dangerous. Aside from the energy they contain, they're probably trapped, and the resulting explosion might overwhelm our shields. I could arrange something from a distance, but not so close to the bridge, I think. If they were overzealous enough in their defenses, attempting to blow the internal shields could blow a hole in the hull, and suck us out -- or at least thoroughly block our way there.'

'But?' he said, because he sensed a _but_ there.

'One of the deadly aspects of cohorts was, and is, the ability to adapt our integral shields to the frequencies of phasers and disruptors. Mine is crippled, because some of the generators had to be removed in order to replace my internal organs.'

'You could still do something with it, though?'

'Probably, given an hour or two. If I could synchronise a personal shield to the frequencies of the internal force screens, I could, effectively, tunnel through them.'

Malcolm patted the belt that she'd given him.

'Yes. And it would be even faster to modify that one. Perhaps fifteen minutes. But it won't last long and I won't be able to do it twice. The question is, do we go outside these shields to a part of the ship where I can more-safely disable the shields, and try to get you beamed out -- or do we try to disable the shields at the source?'

'How long do we have before someone does something _else_?' Malcolm asked. She was silent. He went on, 'We can't wait to find out if your people can bring in more personal shields. And if you have to destroy this ship, there are still _your_ people on it.'

'They know the risks,' she said.

'So do I.'

Her grey-eyed glance was... a captainly annoyance. 'I don't have time to argue with your human pride,' she said, and strode to the wrecked door, looking out. He followed, stung, and she drew back in. 'No one's within short scan-range,' she said, and reached up to draw him into a kiss.

When they left the room, seconds later, she turned towards the ship's bridge.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deploy the treknology treknobabble, Captain!
> 
> STO players will point out that even Liberated Borg characters get to upgrade their personal shield generators. In Ten's case, while obviously she _could_ use an external one, my headcanon says it's also possible that when she gets improvements, she takes a while and reprograms her personal emitters to be more effective.
> 
> There are reasons Ten of Thirty's not as svelte as Seven of Nine; having a torso that actually retains a moderate amount of tech would be one of them. (Also, no corseting. *cough*)


	21. T'Pol, still in a shuttlecraft

**T'Pol**

T'Pol was on the wrong side of a forcefield. The captain's orders had been: _Do what you can. Find out what you can._

This left her performing close-range scans while listening to the _Oath_ 's Chief Morale Officer try to cajole the shuttle into undocking from the airlock of the theoretically captured ship.

T'Pol would have liked to have cut the connection, as the woman's voice was a distraction and even irritating Mayweather by now, but if the entreaties turned into threats, she wanted to have some warning besides a torpedo too close for comfort.

At least Mayweather wasn't bothering her deliberately. She could ignore his fidgeting.

Unfortunately, her scans were not giving her anything to work with. She slid back down the airlock tube to the shuttle. "I do not think I can get past the explosives and disable the screen over this airlock. We will have to find another," she said, because while they were listening to the _Oath_ 's transmission, they were not broadcasting.

Mayweather sighed and turned back to the controls while she closed the hatch. The sound of the magnetic clamps releasing was not a relief. T'Pol had no expectation that they would find any unprotected entries into the alien vessel, and this would turn into another tiresome discussion with the captain, who seemed to think Vulcans could violate physics whenever they felt like it.

Light flared around the shuttle, and Mayweather flinched on the controls; they bumped against the larger ship hard enough to jolt them, if not enough to cause damage. "Forcefields are up!" he said, unnecessarily.

The communication transmissions had been blocked, T'Pol noted. She attempted to boost a signal to the _Enterprise_ , and got only static in return. "Ensign. How much clearance do we have?"

"Might be able to skim us around the underside," he reported, gauging the faint shimmer of the shields through the forward viewport. "Wouldn't like to try to get on top. Wouldn't like to be moving if it goes to warp, either."

"Secure us back at the airlock," T'Pol said, and reviewed what she knew of defusing bombs. It wasn't enough. She wasn't favorably inclined toward their chances of remaining affixed to the other ship if it went to warp, either. Or even impulse. Within the shields, they were _probably_ safe, but the shuttle protruded enough that unless the larger craft's helmsman was careful, the stresses could eventually shear the shuttle apart.

The distance between one end of this airlock -- more a maintenance tube that happened to allow access to the exterior of the vessel -- was enough that both she and Mayweather could seek shelter within it. But it was not a sufficiently large cylinder as to make her sanguine about the proximity they would be forced into.

The clamps locked back on, and T'Pol waited for the alien ship's airlock to slide back again, as it had when they'd docked originally. They had brought vacuum suits, but she preferred not to use them if possible; they were bulky and inconvenient.

"Clamps secure," Mayweather said. The vibration in the shuttle suggested the procedure was going identically to when they'd first docked. "Detecting atmosphere beyond the dorsal hatch."

T'Pol pulled the shuttle's hatch open and paused. There was a shimmer of a forcefield immediately in front of her. "We should get the suits on," she said, and reached for hers.

"Yes, sir," Mayweather said. He secured the pilot's console and moved toward where his suit was strapped into a seat and waiting.

Busy readying her own suit, T'Pol glanced up at the man's yelp. Then she followed his gaze.

Through the doubled haze of the forcefields, there was a face at the far end of the airlock.

It was Andorian blue.

* * *


	22. Archer, back on the Enterprise

**Archer**

Archer was about ready to stomp over to the other ship and start kicking things himself. "Any luck, Hoshi?"

"Negative," his comm officer reported. "They're not responding, or trying to hail us any more."

The shuttle's receiving antenna just weren't as powerful as _Enterprise_ 's. They'd received most of T'Pol's attempt to contact them, but she clearly hadn't received theirs in return.

"Incoming transmission from the _Oath_ , Captain," Hoshi added. "It's not their morale officer."

"Put them on the screen," Archer said, and waved at the forward viewscreen.

A darker-skinned human woman appeared. "This is Commander Misha Konieczka, and with _all_ due respect, Captain Archer, why the _hell_ did you send people over there?!"

"Your _captain_ kidnapped my tactical officer!" he snapped right back, without thinking.

"He didn't look kidnapped to me," she snarled. "Our priority is to get him _out_ of there, but now we've got _more_ of your crew to deal with!"

"What's going on over there?" Archer demanded.

"On our ship? Wrangling over two hundred prisoners and glad as _nga'chuq_ that bird was under-crewed by half!"

Archer glanced at Hoshi, whose eyebrows were raised. Apparently swearing in alien languages was common in the future. "On the other ship," he said. "I want to know what danger my crew are in."

"Only _one_ of them would be in trouble if you'd just kept your _Hu'tegh_ shuttle to yourselves!"

" _None_ of them would be in trouble if your captain hadn't grabbed Malcolm!"

"Well, excuse me for not realizing he didn't have permission to be there! Do I _look_ telepathic?" Commander Konieczka looked angry, not telepathic. "Now who have you sent over and what are their orders?"

Archer took a deep breath. "You're in contact with your people over there?"

Commander Konieczka visibly calmed herself as well. "Not since the shields went up. This _should_ change in the near future, as soon as we can configure our transmitters to blast through the shields, or if our people can get those shields pulled down. So I'd like to know what to tell them about your people."

Not much he could object to on that one, though it galled him to admit it. He answered, "T'Pol, my science officer. Travis Mayweather, helmsman. They're supposed to find Malcolm -- Lieutenant Reed -- and make sure he's all right. Try to get him back to _Enterprise_ if they can."

Konieczka covered her eyes with her palm for a moment. " _ghay'cha',_ " she said, weakly, then put her hand down. "We'll do all we can to grab them and plonk them back on your ship, Captain Archer. But please. Don't send anyone else, and don't get your ship any closer. "

He pasted a smile on his face, nodded to her, and said, "We'll try to stay out of your way, Commander."

Her glare suggested she didn't believe him, but she said, "Konieczka out."

No one was left on the bridge who was going to ask him any questions. Archer took his seat again. "Do I need translations of any of that, Hoshi?"

"It was Klingon, sir."

"Right." He rubbed his own face, now that he wasn't being watched by anyone but his own people. "Do you have that transcription for me yet?"

"Some, sir. Shall I put it on a data stick for you?"

Archer sighed. "Yeah." He heaved himself up once more and went over to collect it. "I'll be in my ready room. Get me if anything else happens."

Dammit, he should've gone over there himself and let Trip handle any calls.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Commander Misha Konieczka curses in Klingon, yes.
> 
> She's also the only human Bridge Officer on the _Oath_ , which is why she gets to do all this talking, despite not being the senior-most of the remaining BOFFs. This doesn't improve her disposition.
> 
> (Behind the scenes, the senior engineers on the _Oath_ are going, "You think we can blast transporter signatures through shields? And you're volunteering to try this? Yeah, no, we have a better idea.")


	23. T'Pol, still not having a good day

**T'Pol**

There simply was not enough data. T'Pol hurried herself into the vacuum suit, in case the Andorian was among the enemy who'd been crewing this ship -- though once T'En had known the _Enterprise_ had encountered Andorians, would she not have relaxed her caution on mentioning them? T'Pol did not close the hatch and have Mayweather move the shuttle, though, since the Andorian didn't act hostile. It had neither closed its end of the airlock, nor manifested a weapon, nor even made obscure gestures. Instead, it was concentrating on something around the edges of the airlock.

So, suited up, they waited.

And waited.

And finally, with a burst of sparks, the forcefields dropped.

"Hurry," the Andorian said, tone of voice suggesting a female; her words were translated, not English. "It may re-establish itself."

T'Pol was the ranking officer on the shuttle, and it would be best for her to go into danger first. She pulled herself into the airlock, going up the ladder as quickly as possible.

At the top, a man offered his hand to help her up and out of Mayweather's way. T'Pol was wearing the suit, and therefore had no hesitation in taking that hand and letting him support her as she got a knee onto the deck and stood, stepping out of Mayweather's way. Then she had a look at the stranger.

He was wearing a leather jacket and a thick scarf, rather than a recognizable uniform. His ears were pointed, like hers. A tattoo sprayed out pointed rays from around one eye. Some kind of forehead modification had given him V-shaped ridging that echoed the widow's peak of his hair style; it combined with his deep-set eyes to give him a dark glower.

His presence made it even stranger that T'En would have focused on a human. Was he bonded to someone else?

She pulled off her helmet and said in her own language, "I greet you, cousin."

He looked at her sharply, then glanced to where Mayweather was being helped through the opening by the Andorian and... Another, darker-skinned woman, also with pointed ears, wearing a long, reddish coat as if it were a uniform.

T'Pol wanted to feel that she was among her own people. That she had that security. She didn't.

The man turned back to her. " _Jolan'tru,_ " he said -- and the word was neither familiar, nor translated.

"I don't understand," she said, and both of her... cousins... looked at each other with _emotion_ on their faces.

Apparently T'En was not the only "feral Vulcan" in her future, and her comment about "genetic concerns" made appalling sense. T'Pol had, of course, heard of _V'tosh ka'tur_ , Vulcans who rejected logic. But could these people even be called Vulcans anymore, after however many years of... whatever civilization they'd made for themselves? Worse, while they apparently understood her language -- via their own translators, probably -- she didn't understand theirs.

"Do we share a common language?" she asked, now in English, so Mayweather could understand the problem.

The man said something and rubbed his face.

The Andorian female said, "Did you understand me?"

"Yes," T'Pol replied. "Our translator has your language."

Her antenna waved and bent, signaling unknown emotional states. "That's a relief. My Terran isn't very good, and Tovan and Nehor don't speak much of it at all."

"But they're Vulcans," Mayweather said, helmet now off. He sidled over to T'Pol, either for protection or as a sign he was ready to defend her.

The _Oath_ 's crew exchanged threefold glances among themselves. The Andorian said, "They're... not from Vulcan. Quite. I'm Sedil."

"They are like Captain T'En?" T'Pol asked, in an attempt to verify her repellant theory.

"Not quite. They're not-- ah. They're--" Sedil's antenna swung in what was likely agitation. "It's _complicated_."

"Apparently," T'Pol said dryly.

The man spoke, and Sedil translated: "Tovan asks why you're here."

"We are concerned for Lieutenant Reed. We believe your captain brought him here."

Now the other woman -- Nehor, by elimination -- said a longer something, which Sedil translated as, "She says he was with her, the captain, yes. They were headed towards the bridge, looking for whoever stunned the rest of the engineering crew down here. The shields went up a while after they left and we lost contact."

T'Pol wanted to ask if Reed had been acting _normally_ , but she hardly wanted the answer translated through an Andorian -- even if said Andorian didn't seem to be hostile, and was in fact wearing a jumpsuit like V'Lor's -- and explaining what "normal" was for him might be difficult anyway. "We need to get to him. Our captain is concerned."

The man, Tovan, complained and folded his arms. Sedil didn't translate for him. Instead, she said, "We've been trying to get the shields down. We thought we'd transferred all those controls to the engineering stations, but it's like there's a third override channel, or a backdoor into this one. Maybe both, maybe a fourth..." She scowled.

"Perhaps I can help," T'Pol said.

Nehor said what was clearly, _It's worth a try,_ even if T'Pol didn't understand the words.

Sedil waved for them to follow her. "I hope so. I'll show you what we're up against. The things are booby-trapped."

T'Pol pulled out her scanner as she accompanied the Andorian. It was something to do that was both useful and would also keep her from worrying at the puzzle of: _Why Malcolm Reed?_

Behind them, the two... feral... Vulcans kept watch, weapons out.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yes, Sedil could've answered some of T'Pol's questions as well, but she's not the ranking officer there and is passing the buck to the greenbloods.)


	24. Malcolm, in the maintenance tunnels of an alien ship

**Malcolm**

The vertical tube was narrow, and Malcolm both liked it for how it made covering the rear an easy thing, and hated it for how they had no cover. T'En was above him, braced with one booted leg across the tube's width, fussing with the personal shield he'd so briefly borrowed. Since she needed both hands for that, Malcolm had her rifle. It was about as heavy as it looked (which only reinforced that she was strong for her size), and holding it at the ready gave him a secret glee.

'Get set,' T'En murmured.

Malcolm pulled the rifle's retracting strap out, clicked the safety on, and slung the weapon-strap over his shoulder. He kept a hand free to reverse all that if he heard anything coming, but now added a few glances above him.

He was a professional, and was not distracted by having to look past a thigh-high boot and the tight leggings -- even if it did give him a warm feeling to remember she'd left her pants on the floor of his cabin, along with her gloves, undershirt, and the strip of fabric from her shoulder decoration.

T'En fitted the shield generator up against the forcefield, flicked something in it with a bare finger, and said, 'It should work. Come up now.'

He did, into a space that was just barely big enough for both of them, and wouldn't have been if she'd had a larger bosom. He made sure his feet were well up, so he was contorted slightly. Neither of them complained.

'On my mark,' she said, and he tensed. The trick they were exploiting was that personal shields allowed things to move from inside them to outside. Energy, especially, from phasers and other weapons, but projectiles as well, or sword blades. If they could convince the ship's force screens that the personal shield was part of them, the energy should flow around him and T'En, and they would be able to go straight through, out the top of the personal shield.

They'd have to move fast, though; when the shield burnt out, the ship's forcefields would snap back. Being in the way of that could be painful, or fatal.

She moved the personal shield generator closer, pressed it against the forcefield, and then _through_ it. The sparkle in the air turned into a gold-green fire that wrapped halfway down the tunnel around them.

' _Go!_ ' she snapped, and he went, hands and feet on the ladder-rungs as they'd planned, so he'd not be stepping on her on the way up.

The top end of the shield's ovoid sparkled faintly. He didn't stop, though he ducked his head and gritted his teeth as he broke through. It was like climbing through a skin of sunburn.

He kept going, because T'En would be right behind him. He kept going, even when he heard a minor explosion crackling behind him. He did glance down, though.

The forcefield had closed while one of T'En's knees was still partway through. Her own shields flared white as she yanked herself up, and he smelled scorched leather.

But she was through, and the forcefields had snapped back, and Malcolm dragged himself into the right-angle turn they'd seen. It was big enough for him -- and then T'En as well, and she clung to him tightly as they waited to see if the explosives in the tube would trigger. And if they did, if her shields could protect him as well, if they were close enough. If. If. If.

Ten more seconds. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. Fifty. A minute. He dared to hope they hadn't disturbed the defenses enough to trigger a fuse. He wasn't going to second-guess T'En's instincts for timing, though.

And if he was about to die, there were worse ways to go.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: STO rifles go from "Drawn" to "Holstered Across The Character's Back." Rather than try to explain this as tiny forcefields or magnets, I will assume they have hidden carry-straps. Which may have magnets or some form of Star Trek Velcro to secure the things across the back, sure.
> 
> (Meanwhile, World of Warcraft characters (none of which will appear in this fic) keep their two-handers stowed on their backs via magic.)
> 
> 2: In the UK, "pants" is the word for "underwear."


	25. Archer, still on the Enterprise

**Archer**

"They're powering _something_ , Captain," came the report from the science station. He had a brief moment of irritation -- T'Pol would've been able to give more information, surely -- but before he could demand details, Hoshi said, "Incoming transmission from Commander Konieczka."

Well, at least the other human was keeping them in the loop? "Put her on," he said.

The woman looked slightly less angry this time, at least. "Captain Archer. We're going to try to take down their shields. Please don't..." She paused. "...don't overreact. This should be perfectly safe for everyone on board."

Archer swallowed the natural irritation of being talked down to by someone who looked half his age. Well, a decade his junior, at least. Maybe two. After all, she'd had a stressful couple of days as well, what with not even being born yet for a couple hundred years and change, and wrangling a lot of prisoners. He put a smile on his face and said, "Thank you for keeping us informed. Should we be backing off?"

"If you can put another kilometer between our ships, that'd be great, Captain. Once we get the shield down, you can call your people from the shuttle, and we can try to check on your tactical officer."

"Thank you, Commander," Archer said. "Helm, move us out of the way."

Konieczka looked so relieved that Archer wanted to get contrary again. But she said, "We'll contact you as soon as we know what's going on with your people," and cut the connection.

He sighed and brooded at the screen, then remembered to say, "Make sure to scan whatever they're going to do."

"Yes, sir," said the man at the science station. Who wasn't T'Pol.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Between the duty-officer augmented tractor beam and the _Oath_ 's Tachyon Inversion Beam, the shields on a sitting duck are really not going to do it a lot of good.


	26. T'Pol, on an alien ship

**T'Pol**

They had failed to determine any way to disable the traps around the vulnerable parts of the forcefields. T'Pol was not pleased with herself for being unable to achieve that, but neither was she very surprised. Mayweather had asked about just going down and around, but the forcefields protected themselves nearly everywhere except the edges where people with the appropriate codes would normally be able to turn them on and off in localized areas.

The codes that Sedil had, needless to say, were not working. The Andorian had not punched a console when explaining this, but her demeanor had suggested she would have liked to.

T'Pol had been attempting to penetrate the computer's security -- with Sedil's help in translating the symbols that were being used -- in the assumption that there was a vulnerability someone had exploited to remove control from engineering. Then a static-laden message had come through, in English: _"Bind the interior shields to the external shields."_

She'd been able to assist with that, and now they stood well back from anything electronic. In the other room, the caged singularity's magnetic seals continued to rotate around it, and T'Pol hoped _its_ shields would continue to hold.

The ship shuddered. Then again. The consoles didn't arc or explode, and Nehor moved to prod at the one they'd been using. Her tone of voice was pleased. 

T'Pol forbore to shudder as the ship had, despite the terrible _wrongness_ of the two ferals. Instead, she pulled out her communicator and attempted to contact the _Enterprise_ again. There was static, with perhaps Hoshi's voice, but as T'Pol did not have Hoshi's ear, she could not make out anything of use. At her quirked eyebrow, Sedil explained, "The interior shields are now being drained to power the exterior shields, but if we haven't pulled those down yet, your communicator probably can't receive anything. Beaming you out wouldn't be safe, either."

"I see." T'Pol spoke into the device anyway, in case Hoshi could make something out. "T'Pol here. We are unharmed, in the company of three of the _Oath_ 's crew. We will continue to seek Lieutenant Reed."

Tovan scowled -- an easy expression for him -- and said, quite clearly, " _Mnean mnaeri urru Dha!_ "

Nehor objected. As both T'Pol and Mayweather looked expectantly at Sedil, the Andorian tapped her badge as V'Lor had done, and said, "By the Infinite, send two translators!"

Drowning out the static-laden reply from Sedil's chest-mounted communicator, Tovan snapped, " _Mnaeri urri mnean!_ " and began stalking out.

With a mutter of her own, Nehor followed, giving everyone else a _come on_ gesture. Sedil tapped her badge again. "We're going to the captain. Send the translators to me!"

The comm-badge squawked annoyed static, but T'Pol was moving after Tovan and Nehor. Where Captain T'En was, hopefully Lieutenant Reed would also be present.

Mayweather followed her, with human grumbling that T'Pol ignored, and Sedil trotted after them in turn. The Andorian's own not-quite-subvocalization seemed to be complaining about "pointy-eared greenbloods," which was at least familiar invective even if Sedil's body-language and tone was more exasperated than angry.

Tovan, rifle now in hand, stalked toward the doors out of Engineering. Nehor had a pistol, and Sedil had something that looked like a flashlight -- which she held like a weapon.

The doors, pleasingly, opened onto a corridor and not a forcefield. The two _V'tosh ka'tur_ spread to either side of the hallway, and T'Pol slid behind Tovan, waving Mayweather to stay behind her. Sedil followed in Nehor's wake.

Sedil's communicator cheeped, and she touched it. "Sedil here," she murmured.

The female voice at the other end was clear now. "Can you send the _Enterprise_ crew to their shuttle? Their captain wants them back."

"Not without Malcolm," Mayweather said.

Sedil cocked an antenna at him crossly. "Not just now, Commander."

"I don't know how long the shields will stay down. Hold _still_ a moment while we beam in the translators, will you?"

They paused, though Tovan's irritation was nearly palpable. T'Pol shifted away from him.

Nehor tapped her wristband, then held it up to speak into it quietly. From both there and Sedil's badge-communicator, the voice answered, "We're scanning now; there's a lot of physical shielding. How many _Enterprise_ crew do you have with you?"

Sedil said, "Two. Why?" But T'Pol stopped paying attention to the answer as Tovan snapped something and whirled, shoving T'Pol against the wall. She would have struck back instinctively, but for the intense emotional _protectiveness_ that seared into her at the touch. Impersonal, but bedrock-deep.

And entirely deserved, as wall-panels in the corridor were pulled inwards and a handful of men and women stepped out. A glance over the shoulder confirmed that a similar number were behind them. They were, T'Pol noted with a resigned irritation, from the same mold as Tovan: the same ridged foreheads, combined with Vulcan-like slanted eyebrows and pointed ears. The same scowls. All wearing close-cut tunics, glittering with metal squares like T'En's gloves.

Enemy _V'tosh ka'tur_ , with weapons drawn and pointed at them.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: STO-era communication technology has improved over that of the first _Enterprise_ 's era.
> 
> 2: You don't know how long I spent trying to figure out proper sentence structure and verb conjugation/agreement for Rihan. Thank you, http://www.rihan.org/drupal/ ...


	27. Malcolm, still in a maintenance tunnel

**Malcolm**

The tunnel branched, as they'd known it would. There hadn't been enough space for anything but T'En awkwardly reaching back to squeeze Malcolm's hand, and then she'd gone right and he'd gone left.

The panels had exactly the same release mechanisms as the ones T'En had shown him before they entered the maintenance tubes. He opened the catches carefully; Vulcan ears were keener than human ones, and he wasn't sure what sounds might draw someone's attention.

Once the panel was unlatched, he could pull it inwards on one hinge, requiring him to wriggle backwards in the tunnel while keeping it from swinging back closed. He'd asked why she thought it would do this, and been told, _We are a horrible, twisty people, my friend. It'll be an escape-path as well._

Real maintenance could pull the thing free from its pushed-back position. He just wanted to wriggle through the opening quietly, into the short, antechamber-like tunnel between the bridge and the lift. Wriggle through, and hope the lip of the archway protected him from view -- but that its defensive doors hadn't been closed entirely.

The ship shuddered, and Malcolm tried to hurry without getting sloppy, even before he could wonder if the ship had started moving, or if one of the other ships out there had decided to tickle it with a weapon as a pointed comment.

Luck was finally with them: the archway was clear of doors and forcefields both, and Malcolm could squeeze out with some protection. He used a foot to stop the panel from banging back into position, eased it shut, and glanced over his shoulder. The lift was hidden behind doors, and he didn't want to get so close that they might whisk open as _Enterprise_ doors often did. He'd just have to keep an ear out for anyone coming up behind him.

Pistol drawn, he crept up to the arch and looked across the alien ship's bridge. It was more dimly lit than _Enterprise_ 's, in neutral tones of beige and brown. Consoles sprouted from the floor, almost organically, with lit screens that displayed unknown information; even if he'd been able to read the language, he wasn't at a good angle to see them. The seats in front of the consoles looked comfortable.

Someone was lying behind one of those chairs; he could make out short, dark hair and perhaps a pointed ear, with a jacket nearly the same colour as the carpet.

There was another arch across the room, and T'En was already in it, rifle aimed at something Malcolm couldn't see from his vantage -- someone more forward on the bridge, probably.

She twitched her head, her eye meeting his, and quirked a brief smile. Then she said, in Vulcan words that translated a breath later into his ear, 'Quartermaster Lukar, are you an undine spy?'

There was a pause. Malcolm imagined someone turning to see the imposing end of that rifle aimed at them; from that view, there'd be no way to tell whether it was set on _stun_ or _blow the bloody hell out of things_.

A male voice said, 'I am not.' It sounded like Vulcan again, also translated fast enough to nearly be English from the start.

'A closer cousin than we had thought?' That was in an entirely different language, that Malcolm couldn't track while the translation murmured into the earpiece. He spared a moment to wonder if Hoshi would want to skin him for not paying better attention.

There was a longer silence, and Malcolm edged his head around the lip of the archway enough to see yet another Vulcan standing at a console near the bridge's viewscreen. His hands were unmoving on the console's upper edge, and his head was bowed. Quietly, he said, 'Only through my daughter's choice of mates, and her children.'

Once, Malcolm had thought Vulcans would have _dry_ and _boring_ politics.

T'En's rifle didn't waver, but her voice was more gentle than cold, and her language was back to Vulcan. 'What was your plan?'

'I had desired to evade the team in Engineering. I could not. Once they were stunned, I changed the controls back to the bridge. My next plan was to cloak, and if I could not evade the _Oath_ , jump the ship ahead by some years and convince whomever was left aboard to join me. There have been enough tragedies. It seemed plausible I could... trade favours.'

'We all have things we would like to change, Lukar. Stand away from the console, and we will discuss possible compromises after you wake up from being stunned.'

He straightened, but did not step back. 'Is that necessary, Captain?'

'Do you think any other reaction from me would be logical?' she asked, without anger. 'After your demonstrated behavior and ability to subvert the command codes? Please step away from the console. I would rather not risk damaging this ship further.'

Malcolm flicked his glance over the male Vulcan's outfit -- a jumpsuit, as V'Lor and Sedil wore. It didn't seem to have a personal shield generator attached to it. He lifted his own pistol, set to heavy stun, and took aim at Lukar's head.

T'En was facing the other Vulcan, but Malcolm was reasonably sure her sensor-lens had both of them in view. She made no sign of negation.

Malcolm was about to squeeze the trigger when movement caught his eye: the door behind T'En, opening. He swung his arm, hoping she'd duck -- but someone had already darted out, and stood behind the pale Vulcan.

Another woman, with a glittering tunic and sharply pointed ears to match her sharply pointed face. Her brows and hair mirrored the V-shaped ridge that spread across her forehead. He couldn't make out details of the weapon she held to T'En's head, at arm's length.

The stranger said, 'Drop your weapon, 'borg, and display your hands outwards.'

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (As Tuftears said after reading this, Malcolm is due for ALL THE DEBRIEFING. But he can be forgiven for thinking someone called T'En short for "cyborg.")
> 
> It is a shame that there is only one bridge layout for Romulan ships. But hey, we work with what we have for design, right?


	28. T'Pol, in a corridor

**T'Pol**

They were clearly outnumbered, by approximately two to one. They were surrounded. The enemy had not opened fire yet, and the barked instructions of one suggested a demand to lower weapons.

Archer would have done so, T'Pol thought, in a rational reaction to the tactical situation and with the wish to talk things out.

Tovan yanked a small cylinder from his belt and threw it at the ones behind their group, while Nehor snapped something including Sedil's name. And T'Pol found herself and Mayweather against the wall with Tovan to the rear and Nehor to the front, while Sedil dropped to one knee on the remaining side. A heartbeat later, Tovan's cylinder announced itself as a grenade.

"So they're the bad guys?" Mayweather demanded as energy weapons discharged around them, his pistol out as he crouched beside T'Pol and Sedil.

"Yes!" the Andorian said. "Stay behind our shields! If you shoot back, keep your weapon near one of us so the shields won't try to stop it!" She paused to fire at the group between them and Engineering.

As that was the direction Tovan was also facing, T'Pol turned her attention to the other end of the corridor. Nehor stood, concentrating her fire on the nearest enemy, while they all focused on her. It might've been wiser to crouch and present a smaller target as T'Pol and Mayweather were doing -- but T'Pol realized Nehor was deliberately ensuring her shields would give more protection to the _Enterprise_ crew.

T'Pol extended her arm to beside the other woman's knee, and fired upon the same target. These shields were capable of being overwhelmed with sustained fire, and adding her own to Nehor's might provide an edge. (She was almost touching Nehor; the feral Vulcan's mental aura flickered at her own like a gust of wind.)

Behind her was the sound of Mayweather's weapon, and she hoped the human had come to similar conclusions.

Nehor's target dropped, and she immediately switched to the next one, who had paused to crouch and fire. Heat licked through the shields, stinging T'Pol's hand. Fibers in Nehor's long coat were melting, with a stench more offensive than mere human odor, but the other woman stayed standing and firing with a cool anger.

Mayweather yelped and collided with T'Pol's back -- flinched or fell, she couldn't tell, but he was in pain. She got her balance, avoided knocking into the back of Nehor's knees, spared a glance. The human was beating out sparks on his jumpsuit effectively enough, and T'Pol went back to trying to wear down the shields of an attacker.

That one went down. Three more, and now close enough that one ran at them instead of merely firing. T'Pol switched to him, but he closed, swinging the butt of his pistol for Nehor's face. The darker woman blocked and swept his feet from under him so that he landed heavily, knocking his head into the wall, but the other two were right behind him, grabbing through Nehor's shields.

As they shoved Nehor away from her position, she snapped something. T'Pol didn't wait to see if it was aimed at Tovan or Sedil, but attempted to tackle one of the enemy. It was like tackling something oleaginous -- solid, yes, but with a slick barrier between her hands and the man's body. T'Pol could push him away from where Nehor grappled with the last from that side, another woman, but couldn't get a grip on him.

He was more expert at this sort of fighting than T'Pol. She sprawled to the side as he twisted, and he put a boot into her lowest ribs, throwing her more off-balance and sending her heart stuttering for a moment. She still had a grip on her pistol, but in the uncertain heartbeats before she could raise it, he'd gotten a knee under him and kicked out. The blow landed; T'Pol's pistol fell from her possibly-broken fingers and she reflexively cried out from the pain.

Then he raised his own weapon, paused long enough to say, " _Enterprise_!" in tones of gloating--

\--and a blast slammed into his shields, somehow reacting with them to knock him not just off-balance, but almost two meters away from her.

T'Pol grabbed for her pistol with her good hand and added her own shots until the enemy stopped trying to get up. Then she looked back.

Fiercely and methodically, Nehor was punching the final enemy in the face, despite that woman's equal attempts to slam her weapon against Nehor's temple.

Sedil was lying in a heap, while Mayweather, one arm dangling, crouched over her defensively.

Tovan was down on one knee, trying to fend off two of the enemy _V'tosh ka'tur_ , male and female. But behind one of those was...

A human woman in a black-and-red jumpsuit, black-haired but nearly as pale as T'En, with her left temple covered by a similar blue-black metal plate. Her eyes were expanses of charcoal, absorbing all light. She hooked Tovan's male assailant by the back of his collar in a move that clearly understood how to compensate for shields, and yanked him backward, putting her very _large_ pistol to his head and firing.

Somewhat to T'Pol's surprise, the man just went limp, hair scorching noisomely, rather than losing most of his face.

The remaining female was given a similar treatment by another human... cohort member, T'Pol supposed. This one male, with gray, vein-like traceries under his chalky skin. One of his eyes was gray like the cohort woman's, and surrounded by angular metal strips; his other was hidden by a plate with with protruding antenna. What little hair he possessed, cut close to his skull, was bleached gray.

Behind them, striding past now that all the enemy were dead or unconscious -- save, perhaps, the one Nehor was still hitting -- was yet another of the presumably-friendly _V'tosh ka'tur_. Tovan seemed pleased to see her, anyway. She was smaller, rounder-faced, and clad in a blue-gray coat. A strap went from one shoulder to the other hip, supporting a pouch; when that produced a medical scanner remarkably similar to Dr. Phlox's, and the woman went to one knee over the fallen Andorian, T'Pol supposed this was the _Oath_ 's chief medical officer.

The two cohort members examined the fallen, removing small box-like items from them, and the green glitter of transporters surrounded each enemy in turn, whisking them away. Last to go was Nehor's final opponent. Then, as Nehor heaved herself to her feet, the two cohort humans positioned themselves with the rest of the group between them.

T'Pol got up as well, letting her pistol dangle from her left hand as she determined whether the right one was functional. She was inclined to suspect... not. Inconvenient; the pistol's holster was located on her right side.

The medical officer said something into her wristband and a moment later the transporter took Sedil away. With some pointing, the doctor began scanning Mayweather while he smiled awkwardly at her.

As humans would say, there was no time like the present to determine whether they still had biological -- _mostly_ biological, anyway -- translators, until someone remembered to send the mechanical ones Sedil had asked for. T'Pol approached the nearest of the cohort humans: the female.

Her position didn't alter, nor did she say anything, even when T'Pol stood within conversational range. T'Pol considered her options, readied herself to get out of the way if the modified human truly had not noticed her, and said, "Thank you."

The woman turned her head a fractional amount; it was a mechanical movement, as many of T'En's had been. "Our duty, ma'am." Her head clicked back to its original aim.

T'Pol would never have thought she'd be dismayed to find a human who _didn't_ talk too much. The irony was unpleasant. "Sedil requested translators for myself and Mayweather," she said.

"One moment," the cohort member said. She used her left hand to tap the badge on the upper left of her uniform, rather than release her weapon. "The translators?" she asked.

"Understood, One. Beaming them over now."

T'Pol asked, "One?"

The woman twitched her opaque gaze to T'Pol again. "What has our captain told you?"

T'Pol weighed the likely results of trying to get the human to give away more information than T'En had. "A race of conquerors that used neural implants, as well as other modifications, to brainwash prisoners into serving. T'En said her growth to adulthood was artificially accelerated, and she was placed with a cohort."

There was a slight, slight furrowing of the woman's brow. Then she said, "My... cohort designation was One of Three. The captain does not urge me to return to a name that no longer applies." She jerked her head a little further, indicating something behind them. "My companion is designated Five of Six."

Something was itching at T'Pol's mind regarding the numeric "designations," but the realization was diverted by the sound of a transporter. One of Three said, "The translators. Have one of the others help you with them. The doctor cannot monopolize them both at the same time."

T'Pol nodded and turned away. The human was more Vulcan-like than those who resembled her people, and it was... unsettling.

Tovan, several bruises casting green shadows upon his face, straightened from picking something off the floor. Two somethings, she saw: loops of plastic, one marked primarily in green and the other in red and blue. He held the green one out to her.

She looked between her good hand, which had the pistol in it, and her other hand, where three of her fingers were not responding properly, and said, "I may have some broken bones." She lifted her right hand to illustrate.

He sighed, looked over to where Nehor was now being administered to, and said something. The doctor said something impatient back. Tovan sighed again, gestured for T'Pol to wait, and strode over to where Mayweather was gingerly moving his arm; the skin that showed through the scorched fabric was a healthy, smooth brown, though the large hole at his jumpsuit's shoulder would not be equally repairable.

Tovan gave a short speech, knelt down with the red-marked translator, and indicated with gestures that the thing was supposed to hook over and around the ear. The doctor said a distracted something which probably translated as roughly, _I'll help him with it_ , since Tovan stood and came back to T'Pol with the other device.

He gestured with it toward one of her ears. (Mayweather was already trying to get his applied, she saw.) T'Pol considered her prior contact with him; the mental exposure had been even stronger than with most humans. She supposed she should expect as much from a "cousin" without the training and discipline of logic. But she didn't know how many other enemies might be hiding in the ship's walls, so she didn't want to holster her weapon till she knew whether her right hand could be repaired enough to draw it again -- or whether she would need someone to drag her belt around so the holster would be accessible.

"Very well," she said, and tilted her head for him.

Tovan was obviously aware of polite protocols, and attempted to follow them as much as possible. Touch was, however, inevitable, and she braced herself against it. (His self-image, she felt, was earth and stone. The metal defense against the void. Protective. Hints of nurturing beneath. Stubborn as an avalanche.) When the pliable plastic had been fitted around her ear, he drew back and asked, "Is it working?"

The words came through in her native language, not English. "Yes. Thank you. I must ask you a question."

"Make it quick," he said. "As soon as Satra's through with Nehor, we need to get to our captain. She hasn't used her communicator since the shields went up."

There was no help for it. She dropped her voice, leaned in, and tried not to talk through clenched teeth. "If you care about her, why did she go off with one of our _human_ crewmen?"

"What?" He leaned back a little, and looked startled. Baffled. (Dreadfully wrong, to see emotions naked on a face so superficially similar to her own.)

T'Pol would have tried to explain further, but the doctor -- Satra, he'd called her -- came over. "Let me see your fingers," she said, and didn't insist on touching them for the examination. Her verdict was, "Mostly dislocated, not broken. I'll have to straighten them before I give you one of the hyposprays Tovan's always going through. It will take a while for a painkiller to take effect."

"We are low on time," T'Pol said, because Tovan would be stalking off in moments, and braced herself once again for the contact.

Satra was a less forceful mind in some ways. Flowing. Water, blood, life. Tides of emotion. The analysis gave T'Pol something to concentrate on other than the discomfort of having her fingers yanked back into proper positions.

With T'Pol's hand functional, and the hypospray's medicine apparently accelerating healing, Satra turned to Tovan -- staying him by grabbing his collar -- and waved her scanner over him. "I'm going to have to re-set some of your skull-bones again," she grumbled.

"The captain is in trouble!" he insisted.

"What is new about this?" the doctor retorted, but released him. "Fine. Go to her. I'll wait with Security until we can get a proper group to hold Engineering."

As Tovan and Nehor strode off, the cohort woman, One of Three, held out a hand before T'Pol could follow. The modified human pointed at a pistol on the floor and said, "Take a plasma gun. Yours isn't powerful enough to go through shields."

"Thank you," T'Pol said, and stooped to pick up the weapon one of the enemy _V'tosh ka'tur_ had dropped. She glanced back to see Mayweather had done the same, and was moving to join her.

Behind, Satra's communicator spoke in a burst of static, and the doctor snapped, "By the Elements! Tovan! The external shields went back up. They'll have to take them down again before they can beam in reinforcements, or beam anyone out."

Nehor paused, but Tovan waved a hand, not stopping or even looking back. "I'll deal with it on the bridge, then!"

T'Pol hurried to join them, with an unfamiliar weapon fitting too well in her hand.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: Close combat with personal shields. ...yeah, gotta figure something out, right?
> 
> 2: _oleaginous_ is an awesome word.
> 
> 3: Energy weapons with Knockback -- how DO they work? ...shield/energy reaction, sure.
> 
> 4: Did you know that if you get enough Reputation with the right group, you can get Liberated Borg duty officers? You can totally do this thing. Totally.
> 
> http://sto.gamepedia.com/One_of_Three  
> http://sto.gamepedia.com/Five_of_Six_(Security_Officer)


	29. Malcolm, with a hostage situation on his hands

**Malcolm**

The situation was tactically wretched. The stranger was behind T'En, using her as cover. Malcolm couldn't see if the stranger possessed a shield of her own -- and even if she didn't, he suspected she was well within what T'En's own shields would try to protect, so hoping to stun them both was no good. Meanwhile, the Vulcan man, Lukar, might be an ally or an opponent.

Nevertheless, Malcolm kept his aim towards the stranger, who hopefully wouldn't realise his weapon might be underpowered. Which meant he was also aiming towards T'En, whose expression had gone from understated surprise, to eye-narrowed anger, and had settled on a bland expression that promised a great deal of pain for someone.

'Drop the rifle,' the woman behind T'En repeated. 'And display your hands _far_ from me.'

'Releasing the weapon,' T'En said, with a terse, bland tone so familiar that Malcolm would never again assume T'Pol _wasn't_ furious. As her hands opened, the rifle swung back on its thin strap, dangling from her shoulder where the strap had looped over one of her pauldron-like decorations. She lifted her arms up and slightly out to the sides, leaving them at shoulder-height rather than raised as Malcolm'd expected.

The other woman said something that sounded half hiss and half spit, and translated to _damn!_ in his ear. He suspected she was doing the math and realising that trying to get the rifle entirely away from T'En would place a swinging weight in T'En's hand before the weapon was away from her.

Malcolm pressed himself closer to the wall, so more of the archway's lip protected him. He didn't want T'En to think her ducking would get him shot by accident.

Stalemate. And no way to know who would benefit more from stalling.

The woman said, 'I don't believe we've been introduced. You may call me Commander Lyra.'

T'En snorted. 'Your parents were optimists.'

Lyra shoved T'En's head with her weapon. 'Don't speak, unnamed thing.'

T'En looked like she might disobey that; Malcolm would have assumed she'd disobey that, from the tension across her shoulders. But her jade-pale lips twitched into a tiny, wry expression, and she said nothing.

'Now,' Lyra said, 'I believe the gentleman by the console is Lukar, but the fellow at the other archway hasn't been named.'

Lukar whipped his head around, as if he'd been entirely unaware of Malcolm's presence. Malcolm certainly _hoped_ Lukar had been unaware of him. The male Vulcan looked back at T'En and Lyra. T'En's level stare had just enough lowered eyebrow to be forbidding. Malcolm couldn't decode Lukar's bland, 'civilised Vulcan' expression... But he made no comment.

'Come now,' Lyra said. 'How am I to address the charming fellow with the pistol?'

Malcolm muttered, 'From the brig.'

'I didn't quite hear that,' Lyra said.

He cleared his throat, and decided to confuse the matter. 'Orders, Admiral?'

T'En's expression shifted to openly approving of him before settling back to mostly bland. She didn't say anything, though.

Lyra shoved her head again with the weapon. 'Tell your crewman to lower his weapon.'

'Mm.' T'En continued bland, rotating her left hand slightly as if to admire the gleam on its charging plates. 'No.'

'I will blow your brains out,' Lyra snarled.

'And lose your hostage. Or worse.'

'Worse?' Lyra grated through her teeth.

T'En tilted her hands, like a woman admiring her nails. 'How much do you want to risk that I have no... deadman switches?'

'Your own people are here,' the other woman hissed.

'But it would be a very good signal to the _Oath_ to rescue whom they could and blow this ship into oblivion.'

'Stranding them in this time!'

'Maybe. Maybe not. Really, as I told Fourteen once, I swear it's like there's a Starfleet requirement to deal with time travel at least once before they get promoted past Lieutenant Commander.'

'You're insane.'

'That's why they made me an admiral. Insane risks. Following people through rifts in spacetime, saving lives, that sort of thing.'

Lyra started to say something, but then narrowed her eyes. 'Why are _you_ stalling, nameless thing?'

Malcolm wondered at the emphasis there. Was _Lyra_ also stalling? The back of his neck prickled, and he made sure to listen for the lift behind him; if Lyra'd hidden herself from the _Oath_ 's people, there was no telling how many allies she might have, or where on the ship they might be. For that matter, even if she'd beamed aboard, an escaped prisoner, he had no idea how likely it was that there might be others. Or how many.

T'En answered, 'I don't have a lot of options, now do I?'

'You could still join us,' Lyra purred. 'You, the esteemed Lukar, your other crewman...'

With a perfectly bland tone, T'En said, 'Aside from what you think of me, why should I want to do anything that would wipe me from existence? Protecting the timeline is not my honour-passion.'

Malcolm had a sneaking suspicion that last concept was not translating well, and it didn't sound very Vulcan, either.

Lyra's voice was still low and intimate, though she was careful not to lean too closely towards her hostage. 'You haven't made a study of temporal mechanics. Not like we have. We can harness paradox for ourselves.'

It was Lukar who said, 'Go on.'

'It's very simple, really. The problem with altering what we have experienced temporally is that when we return to what we think of as the present -- when our chroniton charge suddenly equalises with our surroundings... that is when actions in our past change or unmake us. But if we choose to make a _one-way trip_...'

'What happens if you live long enough to meet yourself?' T'En asked.

'Nothing, of course. By that time, the chroniton charge will have become entangled with the charge of the time that we have experienced. It would be no more dangerous than cloaking.'

Lukar said, 'What happens at the point one left?'

Lyra shrugged one shoulder, though she still had both hands on the weapon behind T'en's head. 'It's ambiguous. Time might continue. It might halt in stasis. It would certainly morph from the point of view of those who modified the past and returned to the time they left, or further forward. But it's irrelevant to us. We don't need to change _the_ timeline, so long as we can create _a_ timeline.'

Malcolm's arm was getting tired. But T'En hadn't lowered her arms, either, and even if she was augmented... Stubborn human pride was good for something. It had bloody well better be.

'Then why,' the Vulcan man asked, 'start so far back?'

'It was the best chance for us,' Lyra explained. 'We would have liked a better ship, but we had enough technology -- we could have arranged matters.'

'Overthrown the Senate,' T'En murmured. 'Replaced it with yourselves. Ensured so many messy little problems were taken care of before they started.'

'Be silent, nameless thing! We would work _with_ the Senate, to build what we needed to take the gateways for our own and protect the homeworld!'

Lukar said, 'I will not destroy my grandchildren.'

Lyra took a breath, and brought out her friendly voice again. 'Of course not. You see, these things don't have to be in conflict! As you pointed out, we don't need to start so far back. We can go to the right moment, take up your family members, and move further and further back, tidying things as we go.'

The Vulcan man looked down at the console, in what was probably some emotionless display of agitation. Then his shoulders moved and he said, 'The ship's shields have gone back up.'

That the shields had been _down_ was news to Malcolm, but perhaps Lukar had been focused on that when they emerged from the maintenance tubes.

Serenely, T'En said, 'The _Oath_ will have them back down in a quarter-hour at the outside. You may surrender before then, of course.'

'Does a nameless thing have nothing it wants changed?' Lyra sneered.

T'En was a white jade statue. Malcolm thought of the colony she'd spoken of. Of the labs that she'd made their funeral pyres. Softly, she murmured, 'I have a name.'

'You have a number.'

'It serves. I'm hardly going to tell everyone a true-name.'

Malcolm wished for a better view of the alien woman's face, behind T'En. Or a better idea of what the bloody context was. He reminded himself that two hundred and fifty years was long enough for a lot of history and culture to be made -- possibly even for Vulcans. Or whatever Lyra was.

When Lyra did speak, Malcolm thought her tone was more respectful. 'Granted. Have you nothing you want changed?'

T'En had been unnaturally still for her, not moving her head to catch more visual data in her eyepiece lens. Now she twitch-turned her head, just a tiny amount, and her expression was... something. Something unreadable. She said, 'Virinat.'

'Was that your colony, then?'

'It's where Starfleet left me.'

Lyra murmured, 'We have the codes for that operation. We could use them to go unremarked. You surely know how such things work.'

Malcolm felt himself trying to say _Oh_ , in horrified realization. Whatever group Lyra belonged to... was who had destroyed T'En's colony.

'Yes,' T'En said, tonelessly. 'I know how such things work.'

Lukar said, 'And if it does not work? If these ships are destroyed, then what of my family?'

It was T'En who said, 'She undoubtedly has codes to let a ship ease through the defenses and obtain a few people without disrupting the timeline enough to close off going forward another two decades. And if we cannot trust someone whose very name is derived from _Truth_ , who can we trust?' And though her words answered Lukar, she was staring at Malcolm.

 _We are a horrible, twisty people,_ she had said. And _Feral Vulcans are terrible, terrible people._ She'd made a point of it, over and over again.

Someone was going to get double-crossed. The only question was who'd do it first, and when.

Time stretched thin. He heard Lyra say, "Then let us all be friends here. Lukar, if you would take your captain's weapons, please?"

Malcolm didn't watch the Vulcan man. He watched T'En's eye. Watched it narrow in brief thought. Watched as Lukar undid her swordbelt and it thumped to the ground. Watched as she flicked her gaze off to Malcolm's right, briefly. Watched as Lukar started untangling the rifle-strap from the shoulder decoration. Watched as T'En mouthed, in English, _Now._

Two steps, running, and a third half-stride as he braced himself. Lyra wasn't perfectly exposed, was far too close to T'En even at arm's length, pistol held to T'En's head. But it was enough for Malcolm's faith in his own aim, even with his fatigued arms. He fired.

Lyra had shields, ripping like water where they stopped the stunner bolt, scant centimeters from her body. Her first shot of white-orange energy skimmed T'En's cheekbone as the shorter, paler woman jerked her head to one side. Her second shot was aimed at Malcolm.

He fired again, instinctively trying to beat her aim -- _did_ beat her aim, with a shot that would have dropped her. Except for her shield. He had time to realise he should've dived for cover instead, that his reactions to combat without shields had betrayed him.

T'En flung up her left hand in front of the other woman's pistol, palm towards Malcolm.

Her hand seemed black in his vision, haloed in the orange-white energy of Lyra's shot.

He didn't freeze -- he'd realised his mistake, trying to out-speed someone who could ignore his shots. He dove into a roll to the side, further into the alien bridge, trying to get to the wall so Lyra would have to retreat into the niche or come out of it to get at him.

Lyra's aim tracked him, though he was likely less dangerous than she knew. Her left arm was extended, left hand holding the weapon, as she shoved T'En's hand with her right.

Malcolm wasn't letting himself look to see what damage had been done to those pale fingers; he'd have to hope she could get her rifle back, bring it around, and blast _Lyra_ at point-blank range. All he could do was _keep moving_ , keep Lyra focused on him, keep her from seeing what T'En did, keep her from thinking of who the real threats were in that room.

T'En didn't go for her rifle. She twisted, right hand coming around as if to grab for Lyra's weapon -- too far, too far away, and she'd not manage to disrupt Lyra's aim in time to keep Malcolm from taking a shot, and he hoped it wouldn't be fatal...

Lyra screamed, trying to recoil. Dropping her weapon.

Behind them, Lukar held the strap of the rifle, and Malcolm was in no mood to judge whether the Vulcan was trying to pull it from T'En or simply unaware he hadn't let go and was restricting her from full movement. So Malcolm shot him. Stun setting.

He didn't have a shield and went down immediately, grip gone slack and releasing the rifle-strap.

Lyra was still screaming, horror as much as pain, and trying to pull away from where T'En held...

No. Lyra's hand had been pushing down T'En's horribly burned one -- green and black, smelling like a stomach-turning coppery barbeque -- but she seemed to want to let go now, jerking her shoulders and staggering backwards. T'En went with her into the niche, not letting go, and Malcolm followed.

The doors at the other end of the brief corridor opened automatically as Lyra fell just shy of them, her shrieks gone short and gasping, and T'En followed her down, going to one knee.

And Malcolm saw that T'En wasn't using her hands to keep control of Lyra's. Charcoal-black tendrils came from either side of T'En's wrists, and dug themselves into the other woman's flesh at the base of Lyra's right hand, that had been shoving T'En's burned one down, and through Lyra's left sleeve.

He stepped forwards, and T'En said, 'Stun her. Point-blank.'

Lyra's panic-filled eyes met his, and she choked, 'Kill-- _kill m-_!'

He knelt on her other side, put his pistol to her head, and fired. Heavy stun.

T'En took a breath, let it out, and the tendrils retracted into her wrists, leaving only the smallest beads of green blood on Lyra's skin. She brought her left hand to her chest and bowed over it, and Malcolm marveled that _she_ wasn't screaming from the pain. Hoarsely, she whispered, 'A paralytic. She thought it was something else.'

He got to his feet and bent to offer support under T'En's good arm. 'Come on. If she's got friends, they'll likely come up the lift. Let's go against that wall, so they'll pass us and I can shoot them in the back with your rifle.' That monster took two hands to manage.

She looked up at him, the flesh under her wide eye seared and oozing green. He didn't know if she saw what she was searching for. Then she said, 'Good idea. If we have a moment, I can activate some healing, too, if my kit's not too damaged.'

Malcolm helped her up and let her lean on his left arm. They turned around.

Across the room, beyond the other niche, the lift doors opened. The man standing there had pointed ears -- and a V-ridged forehead like Lyra's.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: All the debriefings, Malcolm. All of them. Every single debriefing ever.
> 
> 2: (For those who are wondering -- yes, Ten has gone through the entire Hakeev/Elachi story line. Did you know that if you have a bat'lith equipped instead of a sword or gun, the final cinematic has a Certain Evil Someone being shot by, apparently, a holdout pistol in your bat'lith handle?)
> 
> 3: Liberated Borg have a talent option that is, if I recall correctly, described as a shortish-range stun, via nanites or something. I assume they can be injected as well, and probably work better, too.
> 
> 4: I also assume that Ten's Science Officer Kit (with medic abilities!) is more an external programming/control interface for her internal nano-factories. Because it's cooler that way.


	30. T'Pol, whose day is not getting much better

**T'Pol**

They had been attacked twice on the way to the alien ship's bridge -- but, fortunately, not with such numbers as in the first ambush, and not from both sides at once.

Tovan was very liberal with his grenades for a man fighting inside a ship. Nihor seemed to take that in stride, occasionally flinging out an arm to keep T'Pol or Mayweather from getting into the blast radius, and murmuring comments back to the medical officer via her communicator.

What had finally given the driven man pause was the lift. The _only_ official way to the bridge, it seemed, was through that lift -- and neither of the two _V'tosh ka'tur_ seemed to think it would be a good idea to use maintenance access tunnels, though they both admitted such things existed on this ship.

"What happens if the lift breaks down?" Mayweather asked.

"The commander gets very, very angry," Nehor replied. "On a ship like this, the maintenance staff would probably be flogged. On the _Oath_ , the captain would merely be... scathing. Very calmly scathing."

"There's a chance," Tovan said, ignoring his companion, "that the bridge up there will be filled with Tal-- with enemies."

"And yet you wish to use transport which will concentrate us all in one place," T'Pol said, "and quite possibly not only alert the occupants of the bridge, but allow them to hold us captive within it, or even drop it?"

Nihor said, "I am not arguing with her logic, Tovan."

"It's the fastest way up," Tovan said, glaring at the woman.

Mayweather said, "And maybe the fastest way down?" It earned him a glare as well, but as Tovan didn't raise his weapon, the human did no more than sway slightly in T'Pol's direction.

Nihor held up a hand. "You can take the lift, Tovan. Rig it as best you can to local control only. I can lead _Enterprise_ 's crew up the maintenance ladder. We'll wave if we pass you."

"On a ship like this, the maintenance ladder is likely to be trapped," Tovan grumbled.

"That's why I'll go first," Nehor said.

"Fine. I'll do it myself." He stepped inside the lift and began prying its control panel loose.

Nihor said, "Let's get a head start on him." She also got into the lift and reached above her head to shove at the ceiling -- finally taking out her pistol and shooting four corners of one panel, then standing aside as it dropped.

Tovan, as deep within the control panel as he could be, muttered, "Watch it!" but didn't flinch.

After reaching up gingerly and patting the edges of the gap in the ceiling, Nihor jumped slightly, grabbed the side of the opening, and -- with a little swinging and scrabbling -- hauled herself through. Her face reappeared soon after, and she offered a hand down. "Come on."

T'Pol considered the situation, weighed her options, and said, "Mayweather. Go with her. I'll go in the lift."

"Yes, ma'am," the human said, and reached up to take Nihor's hand.

T'Pol arranged herself at the edge of the lift doors, to try to ensure they wouldn't close and leave her stranded. "Can I assist you?" she asked.

"Doubt it," Tovan said. "Not much room. Almost got it anyway."

 _Almost_ stretched for a while. T'Pol waited for the sounds of the others' soft comments to fade, along with that of their boots on metal ladder rungs. Tovan muttered at his work -- sometimes coaxingly, sometimes sternly, 

She wanted to question him again, of course, but it would not facilitate his work, and she did not want him making a mistake that could get them both killed.

It was, nevertheless, frustrating.

But, eventually, he said, "Got it. Come in. We're going up."

She stepped inside, and he wound cables into his hand and said a word that immediately translated as _Bridge._

The lift began to move. The hole in its ceiling revealed rushing blackness, with occasional points of light from maintenance panels. It was oddly like a simulated starship.

"Why did she choose a human?" T'Pol asked again.

"How should I know? What's his specialty?" He was barely paying attention to her; all his focus was for securing the bundle of cables together by wrapping them in another cord.

"Lieutenant Reed is our armory officer."

"Then probably she wanted someone who could shoot straight, since I was busy punching Tal-- punching idiots."

Had it just been timing? "How long was it between the... prisoner uprising and when your captain was contacted?"

"Twenty minutes, maybe? Thirty? We had it under control. Just didn't have many people to spare when someone beamed over here and stunned our engineers."

T'Pol thought a human would be evidencing visual or physical displays of frustration by now. At least there seemed to be a logical reason to bring Lt. Reed to _this_ ship, and thus the chances of a permanent bond were no higher than before. Still... "Why would she have gone with--"

"Shh!" Tovan said, bringing his rifle up to aim at the doors. "Almost there. Be ready to jump out with me if they toss a grenade in."

Not enough time. Not enough time at all. T'Pol held her own stolen pistol, but pressed herself against the side of the lift. Tovan and his shields would withstand whatever people threw at them better than she could -- unless, of course, it was a grenade, as he warned.

The doors opened, letting in odors of burned meat. Tovan's expression lightened and he let his weapon's aim drift to the side. Then he lurched back a step as shots impacted on his shields. There weren't as many as T'Pol had expected. She pivoted on one foot to swing close behind him, taking cover behind his shields, her weapon extended--

\--and pushed Tovan's aim down so he shot at the floor. She shouted, " _Hold your fire, Lieutenant!_ "

Lt. Reed was already staggering to the side as the small, pale Captain T'En shoved him off-balance, putting herself between him and the lift, and repeating urgently, "It's all right! It's all right!"

Looking suspicious, Lt. Reed lowered his own weapon. "He's one of _her_ people!" he objected.

"He was part of the Virinat colony!" T'En clung to his left arm with one hand. "We escaped together. It's all right. Please don't shoot him."

Tovan straightened, gave T'Pol only a mild glare for spoiling his aim, and said, "That's your lieutenant?"

"Yes." T'Pol added, "Please don't shoot him," and strode forward, letting Tovan follow.

As she approached, T'En crumpled -- in a controlled way -- to the floor. Lt. Reed followed her down, and by the time T'Pol had sidestepped the consoles, chairs, and unconscious bodies, they were both kneeling. Reed had his back to the wall, and still held his pistol. T'En's eyepiece was hidden against his upper chest, with her forehead touching his cheek as she leaned on him, eye closed.

T'Pol knelt as well, visually examining the smaller woman's wounds. She had a severe, but narrow burn on her face; a seared semicircle notched one of her ears; her left hand was likely why the room smelled like burned flesh, though the metal charging plates appeared unharmed amid the greenish mess. A glance at Lt. Reed suggested he was entirely unwounded -- but watching _her_ warily.

Of course. Captain Archer had charged Reed with T'En's security, and even _implying_ a telepathic contact had been deemed dangerous. (That had, truly, been only an attempt to contact skin, and detect limited emotional impressions.) Reed hopefully hadn't been told any details, but would be guarding T'En _from_ T'Pol -- but hopefully only from a repeat of the prior gesture.

One white, bare hand was resting in the small woman's lap. T'Pol nerved herself and reached out to cover it with her own. The charging plates were cool against her palm.

She hadn't been sure what to expect, emotionally, from the contact. Fire, to complete a quadratic grouping with air, earth, and water? There would have been a symmetry there, at least. But no, that did not seem to fit, unless it was the fire of a single spark amid the vast darkness. The vaporous streak of a comet beginning its approach to a star. A mirror's reflection of a single meditation candle.

Something alone, that had once been a tiny piece of an enormous, all-consuming whole.

A mind could fall into that and never come out again. Engulfed. Lost.

Voices whispering in the darkness.

"Subcommander," Lt. Reed said, in a warning tone, and T'Pol remembered to take her hand away.

With the contact broken, she intensely, belatedly approved that she was _not_ one of those capable of true mental joinings with strangers. And approved that she had been stopped from even the appearance of doing so. Deliberately reaching for someone's emotions was as dangerous as it was said to be.

Behind her, Tovan said, "Shields are down, Captain. I recommend we shoot the emitters, at this rate."

T'En quirked a tiny smile, then gave an equally tiny flinch as it tugged the burned area of her face. "Don't break the prize, Tovan," she said. "Check to make sure our crew is just stunned here, and tie up Lukar and the... other woman."

"It's really Lukar?" Tovan said.

"Yes. I'll explain later. It's very messy." She returned her gaze to T'Pol. "Did you find out what you wanted?"

For an unsettling moment, T'Pol could not remember. Then she did. What she had _not_ felt was any hint of a permanent bond, nor even the dregs of the blood fever that she might have expected. So the third, unacceptable chance dwindled to nearly nothing. "Yes."

And, in hindsight, perhaps T'Pol's presence on this ship had been entirely pointless -- or perhaps not, as she and Mayweather had diverted some of the ambushers' attention. That might have been enough to keep Tovan and Nehor from being overwhelmed before reinforcements could arrive. Which might have significantly contributed to the safety of the _Enterprise_.

Which meant that once again, by luck and not logic, Captain Archer's orders had resulted in a beneficial effect. It was enough to make her want to lock her door and meditate for a solid week.

There was nothing T'Pol could do for T'En's wounds, and Reed was unharmed. T'Pol stood and paced about the room, attempting to ascertain where more hidden ambushers might be capable of lurking.

While she was doing this, Nehor and Mayweather showed up, with Mayweather going over to Reed and making oblique demands to debrief Reed later. Nehor checked one of the consoles, then joined Tovan in securing the prisoners.

The sound of a transporter was extremely loud. T'Pol whirled and pointed her stolen pistol at the green glitter, while noting that Tovan and Nehor were watching... only warily, with weapons ready to hand but not aimed.

The image resolved into a hooded woman, with pale, lightly freckled skin and a reflective visor across her eyes. Nehor and Tovan immediately went back to what they were doing. The newcomer looked around, favoring T'Pol with a long, hidden stare until she lowered the weapon, and focused on Reed and T'En.

The new woman heaved an enormous sigh, drew breath, and, on the exhale, admonished, " _Captain!_ " She took a small, flattened ovoid from her belt and shook it in T'En's direction before kneeling to do things to it that resulted in a mechanical device that was approximately two thirds of a meter high, with a similar diameter. That this was entirely impossible seemed to be lost on everyone except Reed and Mayweather, who frankly stared.

Standing, the hooded woman walked around the consoles and bent to haul the unconscious crewperson into a fireman's carry over her shoulder. She tapped awkwardly at her wrist communicator and said, "Veril here. Medical regenerator set up and I've got Rotka. Put me back in Engineering before Satra starts yelling for the captain."

With another green lightshow, the woman -- Veril -- was whisked away with her burden. The device remained, emitters along its edge pulsing gently with a greenish light; the air seemed to have heat-ripples in it.

T'Pol wasn't sure she wanted to be in a future that used transporters so very casually. At least, not without more research into the improvements, and statistical analysis of the accident risks.

More glitter took away the female prisoner. Nehor stood and went to the male one, and T'Pol found her restless steps had taken her to the same niche where Tovan leaned, on the edge of the heat-ripples from the device that had come out of a far-too-small package.

Standing near him gave a pleasant sensation -- from the device, T'Pol quickly ascertained. Bruises faded and left a sense of well-being. She said, "If I asked how that worked, would you tell me?"

"Not without the captain's permission," Tovan said. She realized he was eyeing Reed and T'En. He said, "I think I need to talk to you. Come on." With a gesture, he led the way to the other end of the niche, where doors opened onto what someone clearly thought was a "spartan" office, that was yet twice the size and luxury of the _Enterprise_ 's ready room.

T'Pol considered the small couch against the wall, and decided there would be enough warning of further attacks that she could sit down.

The couch was far more comfortable than one wanted in furniture that one might have to rise from quickly.

Tovan stayed standing. He pointed back in the direction of the other room. "When you were asking about her going with a human... Him, right? Going _where_?"

T'Pol was entirely incapable of sadism. Nevertheless, she felt a certain satisfaction in saying, "His quarters."

The satisfaction only continued as Tovan stared at her. And as he opened his mouth, pointed again, closed his mouth, and resumed staring.

He finally recovered enough composure to say, "So... _How_ did this--?"

T'Pol would have thought he was old enough to understand the mechanics. Probably did. Therefore he was asking a different question. "When Lieutenant V'Lor had to return to your ship -- presumably to help deal with initial issues with the prisoners -- Captain Archer assigned Lieutenant Reed to..." She considered her words. "To be her security while on the _Enterprise_. She had offered to remain until the _Enterprise_ could leave the area, as a... voluntary hostage."

"He had better not have forced himself on her," Tovan snarled, with a hot anger worthy of an Andorian. Or a Klingon. Or perhaps a throwback to before the time of Surak.

"If he had, would she have brought him here?" T'Pol asked.

"If he's blackmailing her somehow..." Tovan looked ready to stalk out of the room and demand answers -- probably while holding Lt. Reed by the throat, pinned against a wall.

Quietly, she said, "I do not believe any of the humans aboard _Enterprise_ are aware of our empathic abilities. Unless she is _always_ so calm when being blackmailed?"

"It can be hard to tell, with ten," he said, relaxing slightly.

T'Pol almost said, _ten what?_ It had, after all, come through as _lehkuh_ , translated into her native language.

But she could also speak English, and did so constantly, and the word... "She has been calling herself 'T'En.'"

"Oh, right." He shrugged. "Some people spoke enough Terran -- they called her that now and then."

Now T'Pol wanted to walk out there and ask pointed questions. She didn't. The only person present who wouldn't interfere would be Mayweather. Flatly, she said, "Why."

Tovan opened his hand toward her. "You've talked to her! She was even more like that when Starfleet dropped her off." He finally sat on the edge of the desk, which raised holographic projections hopefully behind him for a few seconds before withdrawing them. Tovan said, "Look, when she arrived at the colony, she was this tiny little thing, barely a fuzz of hair trying to hide all the scars from where the Starfleet surgeon got the..." He paused.

"The 'conquerors,' she called them." Before saying that someday Starfleet would meet them.

"Huh. Yeah, that too. Well, there were a lot of mods that got pulled off her. And she'd take everything literally, or just stare at you if the literal meaning didn't make sense. And most of the time she'd do what people told her." His eyes were distant. "The women kind of kept an eye on her for a while. You don't think anyone'd take advantage of someone like that, but... Well, they didn't want to have to skin anyone -- and no one wanted to risk she'd get angry and try to..."

"Subjugate?" T'Pol suggested, which was clearly not the _definitive_ word, but it was the one that T'En... _Ten_ had used.

"Yeah. No one wanted that starting. She could've destroyed the entire colony. But they're... they're like that, the ones rescued from the 'conquerors.' So some people called her T'En, like she was--" He stopped and eyed her, but finished the sentence himself this time. "Like she was born on Vulcan."

"Why didn't you send her back to Vulcan, then?"

"Starfleet wouldn't have given her to us if they thought she was Vulcan-born. And it's not like we couldn't use another pair of hands." He grimaced at the door. "You sure that Terran isn't tricking her into it?"

"There is a possibility of a mutual misunderstanding of expectations," T'Pol said, because that was fair. "And there is a possibility that Starfleet misjudged Lieutenant Reed. I do not place a high confidence in either of those. Do you?"

"It's just hard to think she might... I mean, a _human_!"

"I was equally discomfited and perplexed," she told him. "My first thought was that it was _pon farr_ , but her current state is not suggestive of that."

"Should _hope_ not," Tovan said, looking between her and the door. "Wouldn't that mean she'd want to _keep_ him?"

It twisted in her gut that he was _asking_ , as if unaware himself of the regrettable urges that ensured the continuation of the species. Quietly, she said, "I don't know. Would she?"

"We don't get that any more. It's just rumors and old stories for us. I guess... the Vulcan-born still have it, though." He hunched his shoulders just a little. "That's mostly dirty jokes, though. Ten quashes most of that stuff if she finds out about it, because it's bad for morale if the Starfleet exchange crew hear it. She makes people repeat the jokes to her and try to explain why they thought it was funny. Just stares at them."

"This works for her?"

"Well, one hard-case who didn't start stuttering first thing, she listened, then said, 'I don't understand. Explain again.' For about two hours, till he cracked and said something he shouldn't have, and then she said, 'Is that insubordination?'" Tovan rubbed his face. "Why am I telling you this?"

An interesting question, probably having to do with hormonal effects on a mind untrained in logic. She didn't say as much. Humans never reacted well to such observations, and she suspected _V'tosh ka'tur_ would be no more receptive to the idea. "Perhaps you are hoping I will tell you if her behavior is out of character. I am not sure."

"Look... You're supposed to talk to him, right?"

"We were sent to ascertain if he was being kidnapped, yes. As you say, we were concerned there was some risk she might want to... keep him."

"Fine." Tovan slid off the table, which perked up its holographic displays at the movement, then faded them down when he moved out of range. "You bring him in here with your other human, and talk to him. I'll ask Ten what's going on when the door's closed."

T'Pol also stood. "Agreed."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: Because Tovan is kind of the "Voice of the GM" in the initial Romquests, he does a lot of "suggesting" and you wind up going along with this. I decided to justify his frequent "insubordination" as him feeling all big-brothery towards Ten. Ten goes along with him when he's sensible, and overrides him when he's not, and he's cool with this (or else, y'know, he'd be the PC ship commander).
> 
> Yes, this is the first time that he's figured out why T'Pol kept being so insistent on her question. Boy's a little dense sometimes.
> 
> 2: Okay, STO Engineering-specialty Bridge Officers have the ability to summon in turrets and other devices. My headcanon is that these are examples of _photonic technology_ : small things that are mostly battery-packs are activated by the Engineer to create things like the turrets, shield-rechargers, and medical regenerator field doohickies. When the battery is exhausted, the photonic device fizzles out. They can also be destroyed by enemy fire, of course.
> 
> 3: Speaking of Engineers, this is an appearance of Veril. I put a Remen hood on her, and played Dabo till I could buy her some sunglasses during the last summer festival on Risa. Veril does not approve of her captain going and getting herself injured yet again.
> 
> 4: This version of the default Romulan bridge layout is intended to have a smaller-than-usual ready room. Part of that is because of shielded compartments with overrides for ship controls in them. Where do you _think_ Lyra was hiding?


	31. Malcolm, on a alien bridge

**Malcolm**

T'En was a warm weight against his side and chest, and though her eyepiece's lens dug into his collarbone a little, he would be damned if he said anything about it. After he managed to shoo Travis off, he murmured, 'Going to need that sugar-water?'

'Oh, don't make me giggle. It hurts my cheek,' she murmured back.

'It looks better,' he said. 'Healing.'

'Medical generators are good at that. It's going to fade out soon, though.'

Malcolm might've said something about that, but the thing _did_ fade out, letting the central core drop to the ground. 'Do I want to know how that works?'

'Very likely. And one day, humans will.'

'Terrible person.'

'Always. Ow. Don't make me smile yet.'

'You said something about fixing your hand?'

'Mm.' She shifted, pulling her badly damaged hand from where she'd been letting it dangle beside and slightly behind her. He supposed it looked a _little_ better, though it was still burned enough to make him cringe. She took that charred sleeve in her good hand and pulled the limb further into her lap, then brushed away the cracked shards of sleeve from the electronics-band around that wrist. 'Steady my arm at the elbow?'

He shifted his left arm -- already wrapped around her -- to support as she wished. Then he watched as her good fingers tapped quick symbols on the slightly-scorched band.

Even watching, he nearly missed the faint green glow at the points on her wrist, where the tendrils had vanished. Then the gentle specks drifted out like fairy dust, almost immediately clotting onto her damaged hand. Other dancing lights flickered around them both, and he heard Travis hissing things to himself under his breath.

More importantly, he could feel T'En relaxing, and see her skin regenerating at the edges.

'Good stuff,' he said. 'I assume that's classified, too?'

'Very. Sorry.'

'Will it scar?' He hated the thought.

'No. I have scars, but only because my healing mechanisms were suppressed so other modifications could be removed and my internal organs restored. When the mechanisms were allowed to respond to damage again, scar tissue was already there, and treated as the default state.' She lifted her left hand and flexed it cautiously, then winced and set back on her leg.

Malcolm decided Nehor was likely to be a good enough shot herself, and set his pistol beside his leg. Then he gathered her good right hand into his, and ran his thumb along the side of her wrist.

'I'm sorry you saw that.'

'Modifications again?' he asked, since the alternative would have him wondering if T'Pol kept hidden stingers in her own wrists.

'Yes. It's more common to have them in the fingers or knuckles. I was something of a prototype.' She let him turn her wrist to the light, such as it was. The alien ship seemed to prefer a dim environment, or perhaps it was to conserve power.

He couldn't see more than a slight dimple that he was sure he'd have mistaken for a scar if he'd noticed it at all. Her wrists felt no different than when in his quarters, when she'd suggested using her detached shoulder-sash to keep her from accidentally using her greater strength... Wait. 'You were worried they might activate, ah, earlier?'

'The thought crossed my mind,' she admitted. 'It can be slightly reflexive. But apparently not that sort of reflex.'

He snorted, and watched the fairy lights slowly dim, save where they clustered on her wounded hand and cheek.

A sound behind him proved to be the door behind which T'Pol and the fellow, Tovan, had vanished. T'Pol strode out first and stood in front of them, making Malcolm crane his neck up to look at her.

Being only human, he found himself making comparisons of their bosoms again, and mentally defending T'En's as quite well-proportioned, if not as grand as the science officer's. He tried to quash the thoughts before he said anything unforgivably foolish.

'Lieutenant Reed,' she said. 'I need to speak to you in private. Ensign Mayweather, come with us. The _Oath_ 's crew may need to consult with their captain.'

Malcolm would have liked to protest that he was supporting an invalid, and couldn't this wait a half-hour longer? But Tovan was kneeling down beside T'En on her other side, reaching for her shoulders, and said, 'I've got her.'

T'En turned her head in two of her hummingbird jerks to give Tovan a look of some sort. Malcolm caught a glimpse of the edge of her left ear -- the green glow was recreating skin over a scaffold of metallic charcoal wire, where a nasty notch had been cut. He'd been too focused on the burn on her face to notice it till now.

If he began dwelling too much on the split-second timing that'd kept that shot from hitting the back of her head... he would be clutching her and refusing to let go. And that would be behavior unbecoming to his human pride. So he picked up his pistol, holstered it, and stood to follow T'Pol into the adjacent room.

The door closed behind them. Travis, voice lowered at least somewhat, said, 'Malcolm, did you _really_ \--'

Malcolm had his hand up to wave off the question when T'Pol turned around abruptly and said, 'Yes, Lieutenant Reed. _Did_ you really?'

It was the tone of voice that had him standing at attention before he thought twice, and he couldn't tell whether he was flushing or if the blood had drained from his face to leave him livid. 'Yes, ma'am,' he said tightly. It was true. It was obvious. And she'd left her underwear on the floor of his quarters, which was a particularly damning bit of evidence.

Travis had faded off to the side, which was quite understandable. T'Pol nearly matched Malcolm's military pose, hands behind her back, somehow looking down her nose despite not being taller than he was. She said, 'Why?'

While _She propositioned me!_ was the strict truth, it felt disgustingly like accusing the girl of leading him astray. He tried to think of something that wouldn't be a lie, and wouldn't be shifting the blame. Not that anyone _should_ be blaming him -- except maybe for running off as T'En's backup -- since they were both adults and he'd been off-duty at the time.

'I am waiting, Lieutenant.' T'Pol sounded like she was blaming _someone_.

He was working on how to make _I was at the Admiral's disposal_ sound less than a filthy-minded erotica plot... when the door behind him whisked open again. T'Pol's focus immediately went to that, and he started to turn.

T'En stalked past him, and stood between him and the taller Vulcan woman. Her head jerked up like a raptor's. Through her teeth, she stated, 'The. Responsibility. Is. Entirely. Mine.'

From the doorway, the Tovan fellow said, weakly, 'Ten, I just had to make sure...'

'You've made sure,' T'En said, still through her teeth but a bit less pointedly. 'Go make sure no one _else_ is trying to acquire this ship, _re_ acquire it, or. otherwise. _inconvenience. **me**._ '

'Yes, Captain,' Tovan said, and Malcolm heard the door close a moment later.

'Now.' T'En returned her attention to T'Pol, while Malcolm wondered if he should be trying to smooth things over. She continued, 'I trust this sufficiently refutes Tovan's paranoid theory that I was coerced?'

T'Pol wasn't looking at Malcolm anymore, at least, so he could try to master his expression at _that_ implication.. Once more, the taller Vulcan said, 'Then _why?_ '

Malcolm expected T'En to tell the other woman to get out of her private life and mind her own business. Or, after the silence stretched several more seconds, perhaps to stare her down until T'Pol got the point.

Instead, T'En looked over her left shoulder at him with her natural eye, bird-swift and searchingly. It was like how she'd looked at him after they'd taken Lyra down. And whatever she found or didn't find, she turned her attention back to T'Pol. She brought her right hand up to gesture to her eyepiece -- and perhaps show the charging plates at the same time. 'In my own time, I am marked as one who was a monster. I have been the nightmare of many races. I was a lethal tool.'

' _Ten_ ,' T'Pol said, in English, with what Malcolm thought was disdain.

'This unit was designated Ten of Thirty, yes,' T'En replied, tone empty and body language as aloof as ever a Vulcan's could be. 

Malcolm couldn't decide if he was glad or appalled that Travis was playing fly-on-the-wall in the corner. No one would believe _Malcolm_ if he told anyone about this -- but he wasn't sure he wanted anyone told, either.

It was T'Pol who broke first, turning and pacing in short steps in front of the room's couch. 'That does not answer my question.'

T'En shifted to face the other woman, in a way that put her shoulder against Malcolm's arm while he pretended to be a statue. 'Then you have never been a monster, accepted either in spite of it, or, rarely and more disturbingly, wanted _because_ of it.'

Malcolm was reminded of what she'd said: _Truth is a **lirpa**._ And he couldn't let her cut herself open with it, all alone. He moved his right hand to cover hers and said, 'You're no monster.'

Her partial turn to look at him was in two bird-like stages. 'I have been. And I cannot muster self-hatred for it. I was as I was. My name is what it is.' But she interlaced her fingers with his.

T'Pol said, 'But why does it matter how others see you?'

'I may or may not be pure-blooded "civilised" Vulcan, but I was socialised by those who... valued emotional connections. And physical ones. With enough time, I began to feel the lack.'

'You. Don't know. If.' T'Pol had halted her pacing and looked like she wanted to make that a question, save for having had a few shocks too many.

'No. The modifications the conquerors made destroyed most of the subtle genetic markers, and while I lack certain physical characteristics common to civilised Vulcans, I could not say modifications did not destroy those, too.'

T'Pol looked like a Vulcan who wanted to indulge in a vivid display of emotion, Malcolm thought. Perhaps banging her head into a wall, or at least pinching the bridge of her nose.

He supposed he couldn't blame her. It was probably like someone telling him she didn't know if she were human, or a species not quite human, with a propensity for berserking.

With a few breaths which were either inaudible sighs or meditative reminders not to develop emotions, T'Pol said, 'Captain Archer wants Lieutenant Reed back on the _Enterprise_.'

'Understandable. I did shamefully stretch his orders to protect me,' T'En said, completely ignoring that he'd insisted on volunteering.

'The engines should be functional in a few hours.' T'Pol fixed her gaze on Malcolm. 'We should return to our respective ships.'

T'En said, 'Do you want our transporters or yours?'

'Neither. We came here in a shuttle.'

'Then,' the smaller woman said, 'I will walk you back to wherever you left it.'

After a brief pause, T'Pol said, 'I had thought you were... incapacitated, recently.'

'When something is important, "incapacitation" is irrelevant. I am neither unconscious nor dead.' T'En twitched her head to the exit. 'Where did you leave your shuttle?'

'At an airlock near this ship's engineering section.' T'Pol gave them a withering look that seemed to wash her hands of the matter, and strode for the door.

Travis looked between their vanished science officer and where T'En stood, holding Malcolm's hand. Then the helmsman sidled out after T'Pol and left them alone.

'Ah, your friend out there...' Malcolm said, in the brief moment they had in private.

'Tovan's just upset he didn't get to make the traditional "hurt her and I break your knees" threats.' She paused. 'I suppose for good enough reason. I've been through a lot. He was just jumping to the worst conclusion he could think of -- he's kind of my bodyguard.'

'Well, I suppose I can't blame him, then.' Professional paranoia and personal concern were things Malcolm could empathise with.

'We'd better go to your shuttle, or they'll be debating on whether to kick the door open or not.'

'You're still healing!' he protested as he switched arms so she could lean on him if she needed, going out side by side.

'A pity,' she said, and then they were amid other people and he didn't want to say anything too important.

Leaving for the _Enterprise_ 's shuttle wasn't quite as simple as just strolling back. There had apparently been more hidden enemies on the ship, and Tovan would not accept that T'En, T'Pol, Travis, and Malcolm could walk back without him or Nehor. (Considering that only T'En had shields, and her hand was still recovering, Malcolm thought he had a point.) Meanwhile, T'En insisted that at least two people had to be on the captured ship's bridge, for similar reasons.

So they waited a bit longer for an escort to arrive, with T'En in the captain's chair and Malcolm leaning on its back over her shoulder where he could make sure her ear was healing well. T'Pol was behind them, making a terse report to Captain Archer.

When informed the escort was waiting at the lift doors, their group got in, somehow arranging so that the humans were on one side, and the Vulcans on the other. It probably didn't help T'Pol's nose very much, in close quarters, but Malcolm cravenly cherished even the small buffer.

At the bottom of the lift were two more... cohort members, he supposed; one male, one female. Both looked to have been human. To be human, he told himself. And when he stepped out of the lift with T'En leaning on him, they both looked at him _intently_ , with nothing so human as normal eyes.

They didn't comment. The one who took the lead was the female with the matte-charcoal... he supposed _orbs_ was, for once, the _literal word_ for the sensors under her eyelids. The male guarded the rear; Malcolm could imagine the man's eyepiece burning a hole in his back.

Despite the precautions -- or, more likely, because of them -- nothing happened on the way back to where Mayweather had parked the shuttle, which turned out to be off of a maintenance room in the engineering section. There, T'En very politely asked for the weapons and translators that the _Enterprise_ crew had been given. And, very politely, those items were delivered into the hands of the cohort-guards.

Then, as the _Enterprise_ 's best pilot led the way down a ladder, T'En asked one of her guards, in English, 'Has this area been cleared?'

The man tapped his own, left-hand, eyepiece. 'Yes, Captain.'

T'En said, ostensibly to him, but looking at T'Pol, who had paused partway down the airlock's ladder. 'Then I'd like a moment alone with Lieutenant Reed.'

The woman guard said, 'Should be safe, Captain.'

And since T'Pol didn't object, but only gave them another of those _I wash my Vulcan hands of you_ looks before resuming her progress down the ladder to the shuttle... Malcolm followed T'En to one corner of the room, while the two guards moved to the room's door. And to the other side of it, Malcolm noted in relief.

With what makeshift privacy they had, T'En slipped her good hand into his, and pulled it to her chest. He wrapped his other hand around hers. 'You'll be all right?' he asked. 'They-- they'll have sugar-water and a charging cable for you?'

She smiled, and didn't wince from how it touched her face. 'Yes. And probably a few pointed questions from my ship's doctor, but I'll live.'

'That's not who left that amazing device, is it?'

'No, she's my chief engineer. _She'll_ understand when I tell her it was your voice.'

'You're sure you won't be in...' _...trouble_ , he didn't say, because she was the captain -- the _admiral_ , even! -- and why would her crew do more than, perhaps, give her a bit of ribbing about her shore-leave?

'The males of her species aren't much to look at, from many species' standards. But oh, they have _such_ voices. One of them, before we made alliance with his faction? I was threatening to keep him in my brig to read to me. Forever.' She had the expression of deadpan mischief again. It made Malcolm snort. She shifted to looking more concerned at him. ' _You_ won't be in trouble?'

He looked around and shrugged his shoulders. 'Well, I'll certainly get a lot of kidding.' At least _Malcolm_ wasn't likely to wind up hosting an alien embryo, which he could always point out if Tucker went overboard. 'And I don't think T'Pol is happy with me.'

'I hadn't expected your captain to send anyone after you.' She sighed. 'My mistake.'

'It was worth it,' he said, and pressed her hand between his. Then he thought twice and added, 'Except you getting hurt.'

T'En quirked her little smile again. 'The injury is irrelevant. You were wonderful.' She let that stand a moment, then continued, 'On this ship, too.'

'Terrible person,' he said, smiling, and bent to kiss her.

They broke for air sooner than he would've liked, but he knew T'Pol wouldn't wait forever before she found some way to summon him into the shuttle.

Wistfully, T'En said, 'I probably won't ever be back for my under-clothes. You can do whatever you want with them.' She looked concerned again. 'You won't pine, will you? Humans don't, usually, on short acquaintance?'

'Well, maybe a little.' He kept smiling, though. 'I won't forget you, anyway.'

'Nor will I forget you.' She lifted her hand, stroking up his neck and into his hair, and pulled him down for another kiss. And this time, when they parted, she scratched lightly against his scalp, like a cat who didn't want to let go. She blinked rapidly at him, and he touched her cheek below her eyepiece once, and turned to go lower himself into the airlock-tunnel.

She watched him, and before she was quite out of his sight, she said, 'Live long and prosper, Malcolm Reed.'

He paused. 'That a prediction?'

With a decidedly un-Vulcan, whimsical grin, she shrugged broadly. 'I slept through history classes, remember? So far as I know, you'll make your own future.'

So he finished going down the ladder while chuckling and shaking his head, which was as much a gift as her last kiss had been.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: Of course her nanoprobe whatsists have covers on them! You don't want dust and stuff getting into your nanoprobes.
> 
> 2: Ten is pretty sure she's Romulan. Mostly Romulan. At least half-Romulan. Probably. It's kind of irrelevant. She mostly only brings it up to unsettle people. With her best poker-face.
> 
> ...feral Vulcans are terrible people with a terrible sense of humor.
> 
> 3: Orbs. Terribly overused in certain purple prose. Exactly appropriate here. Orbs of eye-sized sensor arrays. You don't want to know how many colors she sees in. She can stare into the Octarine and analyze it without a qualm.
> 
> Meanwhile, Five of Six has a weird antenna-thing. I guess he sees things like radio-waves with it? I hope it retracts when he's just wandering around. There would be all kinds of embarrassing mishaps, otherwise.
> 
> 4: Okay, the first time I heard Obisek in the Vault, purring about little spies, I imagine the discussion went something like this:
> 
>  **Ten:** ...he's the criminal we're after, right?  
>  **Bridge Crew:** Right.  
>  **Ten:** I want to keep him.  
>  **Bridge Crew:** ...why?  
>  **Ten:** I will put him in the brig. He will read to me. Forever.  
>  **Bridge Crew:** We know we will regret asking, but what do you want him to read to you?  
>  **Ten:** I don't care. Science articles. Technical journals. Maintenance records.  
>  **Bridge Crew:** ...
> 
> Sadly, when we were finally allowed to confront Obisek, there was not an option for "I should say you're under arrest but really I want to keep you in my brig as my personal reader, and I will totally shoot anyone who tries to steal you from me."
> 
> So it's probably entirely Malcolm's accent that attracted her attention, for all that she didn't list it first.


	32. Epilogues

**Epilogues**

_*credits roll along the side of the screen*_

* * *

**Archer**

"Everyone's away," Phlox reported. "All well-rested and with an appreciation for this era's medical achievements!"

That probably meant "eel therapy" had been used on them, poor souls. "Acknowledged," Archer said, and flipped the switches for Engineering. "Trip, we set?"

"Ease her up, Captain, but should be good for full warp."

"You heard the man, Travis. Let's get back on course."

"Aye-aye, sir!"

The _Enterprise_ came about and began heading past the two alien ships, with cameras keeping an eye on them.

The _Oath_ tipped from side to side as they drew even with it. Archer caught Malcom waving back from just above his console, and pretended not to notice.

* * *

**T'Pol**

The most troublesome part of the report was deciding what to write down, and what to leave to memory. It all depended on who was going to read the accounting.

No one needed to know the vivid emotional impressions she'd gotten. No one needed to be given the unpleasant details of why she'd been concerned Lt. Reed might be kidnapped as a result of the dalliance.

No one needed to know her suspicions that those _V'tosh ka'tur_ were a culture far older than a mere two hundred years. Not unless there had been genetic engineering -- like the Suliban had gotten?

No one had mentioned genetic engineering. And while she should not assume Ten of Thirty would not lie... T'Pol feared that there had been no lies, but only careful interpretations of the truth, and acceptance of other people's assumptions when they suited the _Oath_ 's captain.

Cousins.

And _pon farr_ was "rumors and old stories."

And there were _genetic markers_ and _physical characteristics_.

Perhaps she'd find out the answers to the mystery, if she were patient enough. And if the _Enterprise_ was not destroyed in some undoubtedly heroic and illogical situation.

* * *

**Malcolm**

He'd folded T'En's clothing and sealed it into a plastic bag -- two of them, so he could get at the shoulder-sash and still have the option, someday, of experiencing her scent again and not letting time erode even that.

He wished he'd thought to wish her luck with the other fellow she liked. Or ask that Tovan chap to threaten to break the other fellow's knees if he hurt T'En.

Then he paused. He was going to have to write a report anyway. No reason he couldn't add an 'open in two hundred and fifty years' message. He could even print it out and put it in a bottle, to be traditional.

Maybe he'd ask T'Pol to hold onto a copy for him, just in case.

Maybe she'd even be able to deliver it personally. Or have it done by a child or protégé.

The idea was uncanny, and oddly comforting. He tucked the small bag of clothing onto the top shelf of his closet and went to write his report.

And a letter.

* * *

_*final credits run*_

_*fade to black*_

_*fade back in*_

* * *

**Ten of Thirty**

_"Satra, where are the cellular stasis containers?" the short, white-haired ex-Borg asked, kneeling on a Sickbay counter and waving her tricorder at an upper shelf._

_"Over here," the **Kinaen** 's doctor said, opening an entirely different cabinet and rummaging around. She handed a small cube to her captain. "Why do you need one?"_

_Ten cradled the thing in her left arm -- the hand was healing well, but was still tender from the point-blank plasma blast. She held her right wrist over the cube's opening and carefully extended her nanoprobes, depositing the few skin cells she'd obtained, at the last. Then she retracted the probes and sealed the container, activating the stasis field._

_Satra had pulled out her own medscanner. "Well, looks like you've got enough for full sequencing. Why do you want human DNA?" She paused, "Elements and Powers! You're not planning to--"_

_"If anything happens by chance, I'll deal with it. But otherwise, no. No one's going to want half-humans on Mol'Rihan after Empress Sela's example. Do you think we should plug this in now? Or let it rely on battery power till after the time-jump?"_

_"Battery till after the jump." Satra put away her scanner. "So why'd you take the samples? Cloning? It wouldn't have his memories."_

_Ten contemplated the stasis container, viewing the fields and power-lines that made it work. "Impulse, I suppose. I'll need to research the **Enterprise** 's history and find out what happened to him. Who knows? Maybe the Federation would like the samples."_

_The internal communications speaker chirped. Tovan said, "Captain, the **Rihan Kholhr** 's rift generator is online."_

_"I'll be right up," Ten told him, and turned and left._

_Lukar was outside, guarded by One and Five. "Captain," he said, stoically._

_"Attend me." She continued toward the turbolift._

_"I do not understand why you summoned me, Captain."_

_She let that hang until they were at the lift, and the doors were open. Then she looked up at him. "Our next stop, Quartermaster Lukar, is 2386. Late 2386. Our visit will be brief. And I had better not regret it."_

_She turned and entered the lift. Silently, Lukar followed._


	33. Source URLs

These are most -- though not all -- of the various URLs I consulted in the writing of this fic.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Star_Trek:_Enterprise  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Malcolm_Reed  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Starship_Enterprise  
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jonathan_Archer

http://www.cygnus-x1.net/links/lcars/enterprise-nx-01-deckplans.php -- this one is REALLY AWESOME.

http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/Starfleet_ranks

http://www.languagesandnumbers.com/how-to-count-in-romulan/en/romulan/  
http://www.rihannsu.org  
http://mrklingo.freeshell.org/romulan/rom.php  
http://web.archive.org/web/20060927153852/http://atrek.org/Dhivael/rihan/engtorihan.html (STO fans who've done the Tovan's Girlfriend arc, look up "Aethra" on this one!)  
http://www.rihan.org/drupal/  
http://www.rihan.org/drupal/grammar/conjugation  
http://www.rihan.org/drupal/grammar/verbs  
http://www.rihan.org/drupal/dictionary/o  
http://en.memory-alpha.wikia.com/wiki/Romulus

http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/Andorian  
http://wiki.starbase118.net/wiki/index.php?title=Andorian/Religion_and_Spirituality  
http://memory-beta.wikia.com/wiki/Andorian_genders

https://quizlet.com/1224761/klingon-curses-and-insults-flash-cards/

http://en.memory-alpha.wikia.com/wiki/Vulcan_language  
http://www.starbase-10.de/vld/  
http://en.memory-alpha.org/wiki/V%27tosh_ka%27tur  
http://home.comcast.net/~markg61/masterd.htm

http://sto.gamepedia.com/Dhael_Warbird (probably the Tal Shiar's ship)  
http://sto.gamepedia.com/Daeinos_Heavy_Destroyer (only THE most awesome and attractive ship in the entire game...)

http://sto.gamepedia.com/List_of_duty_officers  
http://sto.gamepedia.com/Specialization:_Security_Officer#Available_Security_Officers  
http://sto.gamepedia.com/One_of_Three  
http://sto.gamepedia.com/Five_of_Six_(Security_Officer)

* * *

If you desire a cover -- say, you downloaded the epub -- there is a placeholder one at <http://archangelbeth.deviantart.com/art/ST-Self-Indugent-Fanfic-cover-566543130>

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End. I hope it was at least amusing totally self-indulgent fanfic.
> 
> My apologies for anything too out of canon.
> 
> Remember: *jazzhands* ALTERNATE TIMELINE! *jazzhands*


End file.
